Two Words
by Kali47
Summary: When Mycroft is kidnapped, somewhere in central Europe, Sherlock and John get on the very first plane which is vaguely heading in the right direction. Beta Read.
1. Prologue

_Following "The Long Week" and "Behind Closed Doors", here comes my third _BBC: Sherlock_ full-length fanfiction. __All three stories are un-related and can be read independently of course, but you will find out the apple, once again, hasn't fallen far from the tree as this new instalment features the same three protagonists: Sherlock, John and Mycroft._

_This story will be a bit longer than the other two and is at its core an emotional study of the intricate relationship between the Holmes boys. It'll take you over the hills and far all the way away to... Germany (because as a wise man once said: 'it's nice to get the London air out of my lungs anyway')._

_The battle against the overzealous use of comma and sometimes ludicrous usage of pronouns is taken on by the brave and fearless Emma. Also embarked on this story is the wunderschön Susanne who helped me with the German bits and complemented my knowledge of her country._

_Hope you'll like it!_

* * *

**Two Words**

Chapters: 10 chapters + prologue & epilogue  
Type: adventure, friendship, family, drama  
Rating: T  
Main characters: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
(no slash / no incest)  
Timeline: Set after 2x01 "A Scandal in Belgravia" and before 2x02 "The Hound of Baskerville"_  
_Summary: When Mycroft mysteriously disappears somewhere in central Europe and the worst is assumed: Sherlock and John get on the very first plane which is vaguely heading in the right direction. The world's only consulting detective is clearly intent on showing whoever it is that has kidnapped his brother that no-one (aside from him, of course) is allowed to mess with his sibling. The only thing is... he has to find out who did it first of all and with next to nothing to go on with, it's not going to be easy.  
Beta Reader: the wonderful Emma (aka Ivory_Winter), with invaluable help from Susanne (aka oehippus) for the German bits.  
Disclaimer: Don't own the show; don't own the characters (sadly).  
Written: April/May 2012

o0o

PROLOGUE.

It started with two words.

They were said on one fateful night; a name and a noun rushed out quickly, in a slightly panting and trembling voice.

But it isn't the words which are the most eloquent: it's the spaces enveloping them. It's the hesitant pause between the two which is laden with the weight of a request that will not be made. It's the strange half-moan half-gasp that follows the noun which echoes with regretful thoughts that, in the end, will never be voiced.

Yes, it had all started with two words. Too bad Sherlock Holmes never picked up his phone to hear them.

o0o

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispers in the darkness of night, a little bit out of breath and running out of time and options. _I need your help_, he thinks pleadingly and a little desperately. It's very uncharacteristic of him but, in this situation, he thinks he's entitled to a little bit of panic.

In the distance, he can see a car nearing and he knows it isn't salvation but damnation and he clutches at the phone in his right hand more tightly.

"Goodbye," he says at last, his voice trembling even more. He wants to say _I forgive you_ and _I love you_ but the car's lights are on him now and it's too little too late anyway. Raising his hands up, surrendering, he presses the red button on his mobile and ends the message.

Thousands of miles away, Sherlock's phone pings on the coffee table, alerting him that he has received a new voice mail. He sighs, when a sideline glance reveals who it's from. He wants to delete it, almost does. Except his cell is on the table and the young man is currently comfortably lounging on the sofa and he doesn't want to waste precious energy to reach for the little black device.

"Delete the message," he orders John – who is sitting in the nearby chair – in a bored voice instead.

The good doctor moans in protest, but he's too tired to argue and he blindly reaches for the Smartphone and absentmindedly presses a few buttons and a message – which could contain a desperate man's _last _words – is lost.

**TBC.**


	2. Chapter 1

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 1.

Today is the third day that consulting detective Sherlock Holmes spends on cold – and quite frankly, dusty – cases. He hates them with a passion, regards the quickly diminishing pile of documents with something only merely better than contempt, but still he continues to open folder after folder. Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector Lestrade hasn't given him any real interesting case in weeks and those _obvious-yet-it's-impressive-no-one-has-solved-them-yet_ cases are the next best thing he's found to try and alleviate some of the boredom that was quickly settling in.

The current dossier in his hand has to do with a young woman who mysteriously disappeared from her Notting Hill flat, some five years ago. It's a good one; it manages to keep his starving brain busy for a solid four hours. It's all the time it takes him to crack the case and realize the only thing that has happened to the girl is 'love' and that she eloped with her boyfriend (who, since then, became her husband) to some tropical island... _how boring_.

His flatmate, former army soldier and doctor, John Watson comes back home from his day at the surgery, as the young detective opens the next file. It's the second to last file in the pile the DI has dropped off at the beginning of the week and if the Londoner criminal class doesn't get a little bit more active, sometime soon, John knows he better hide the gun again.

"So, no new case, then?" the doctor questions a little too cheerfully, as he opens the fridge to fix them supper. The only response he gets is a dark glare, before his flatmate returns to inspecting crime-scene photographs with his magnifying glass.

"I'm sure something will come up, eventually," he adds, feeling mildly apologetic.

Fate must have been listening because Sherlock's phone rings at the exact moment John finishes his sentence. The detective quickly glances at the caller ID – frowning as he reads the name – before picking up.

"What does he want this time?" he asks coldly, by way of greeting. John gives him a questioning look and his friend mouths the word 'Anthea' in response.

The doctor allows for a small smile to grace his lips at the mention of Sherlock's older brother's assistant: a lovely brunette with even lovelier brown eyes and sadly well... an unhealthy relationship with her Blackberry that seem to leave no room for anything or _anyone_ else. John's smile quickly disappears, to be replaced by an expression of curiousness, as he takes note of his friend's sudden change of attitude. Whatever the young woman on the other end of the line is telling him, his flatmate has suddenly gone from _couldn't-be-bothered-to-lift-a-finger-for-whatever-you-want-me-to-do_ to _you-have-my-full-attention-please-speak-faster_.

"I'll take care of it." Sherlock speaks up finally, after listening silently for close to three minutes. Then, he ends the conversation altogether and sits up quickly. He is out of the kitchen, within seconds, and John drops the pan he had in his hand. His flatmate had a look on his face the blogger knows well; a look that says 'new case' and 'could be dangerous'. He finds the detective near the entrance door, scarf already on and coat half-way there.

"Grab a warm jacket, John," he tells him then. "We're going to Germany."

o0o

They rush in a cab and set off in the direction of HeathrowAirport. Sherlock is furiously typing away on his phone – browsing Airlines websites, John notes in a glance. _Curious_, he thinks to himself. The detective usually gets hyped up and talkative in the first minutes of a new case; the thrill of an upcoming chase clearly exhilarating to him. Yet, as he looks on, the doctor finds his friend to be really serious and sporting an oddly closed off expression.

"What's the case?" John decides to break the silence.

"Missing person."

"In Germany?" the doctor presses on, when no further details seem forthcoming.

"Obviously." Is the only stern reply he gets.

Silence falls once again on the cab as they embark on the M4, making quick time in the late-evening traffic.

"Well, any further details on the case you want to share?" the sandy-haired man tries again.

"A member of the British Government is believed to have been kidnapped in Berlin yesterday. He was last seen leaving a meeting with German counterparts; he never made it to his hotel. Due to the nature of _some_ of that person's previous assignments, terrorists' involvement is considered."

"Terrorists?" John echoes bewildered. This is never a good thing and quite frankly, more than a little bit, out of their depths.

"This is annoying," his friend grumbles.

"More than a little annoying, Sherlock! They're very dangerous."

"No, not the terrorists." His friend lifts up his left hand and waves his phone left and right. "_This_ is annoying. There's no flight to Germany, until tomorrow morning."

"Good," John says. "It'll give us plenty of time to discuss why we're heading out to the middle of Europe to chase after some bloody terrorists. Doesn't Mycroft have dozens of spies to do this kind of job?"

There's a shudder of something that crosses the younger man's face, at his words but no reply. The detective instead lowers his gaze back to the small black device, pushing at the buttons with a speed that always had a knack to unnerve the doctor, currently sitting opposite him.

They finally arrive at Heathrow at close to 7pm and the detective quickly sets off to Terminal Five. They have just enough time to make it through security and embark on British Airway's flight number 737 heading for Geneva, Switzerland, before the Gate closes.

oOo

"Alright, spill!" John orders sternly once they're both seated and the stewardess has asked the detective – twice – to turn his phone off, for takeoff.

"Spill what?" his friend retorts.

"You know what I mean, Sherlock. What is really going on here?" he questions in a no-nonsense voice.

"I told you. We're going to Germany to find a man who was kidnapped yesterday."

"Yes, I heard that part," his flatmate replies. "I know you were bored, but it's not like you to drop everything like that and run away to the airport for one of your _brother's_ cases. You always make him work for it. This time, you've accepted without complaining. Why?"

He gets a crooked smile and a praising raise of an eyebrow at the sound deduction. The smile however is quick to disappear.

"It's an interesting case."

"Sherlock Holmes, what are you not telling me?" John questions, with all the military authority he can muster.

"It really _is_ an interesting case." The tone is clipped and John gets the distinct feeling he should drop the subject.

"Alright, so what else do we know? Are there any leads?" he asks instead.

"According to Anthea this was a standard low-profile meeting. There was security but nothing too ostentatious for there were no reasons to suspect any foul play would take place. They don't have any leads as of now, but we are expected at the embassy, tomorrow morning, and they should have more information by then. Especially concerning the 'how' part of the abduction."

"Alright, so the man who got kidnapped, what did she tell you about him? You said, you sai-" John stammers to a stop as the plane starts to gain speed for takeoff. Closing his mouth shut tightly, he grips strongly at the armrest, saying a quick prayer inside his head.

"Everything alright?" Sherlock fixes him, with half of a smirk.

"Yes, yes," he mutters. "Just not much of a fan of planes. Humans are not meant to fly."

"You know, statistically, the chances of you dying in a plane crash are considerably lower than in a car accident," his flatmate deadpans.

John gives him a dark, dark glare in return. "Not helping," he seethes through clenched teeth, breathing as deeply as he can.

Sherlock wisely shuts up, but the smirk continues to mock the poor doctor.

o0o

"So, the victim," John starts again, when the plane is mostly horizontal and he can pretend they're safely on the ground, as long as he doesn't look anywhere near a window. "What do we know about him?"

That same fleeting _something_ crosses the younger man's eyes again, as he considers his reply. His voice is flat and emotionless when the words leave his mouth. "He is the British Government – when he's not too busy being the Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

A second ticks by in silence, and then another one follows.

"Oh my god." John rushes the words out, as understanding finally dawns on him. "Oh. My. God. It's Mycroft, isn't it? He's the one who got kidnapped."

"Hmm hmm." Sherlock hums in reply and his friend is taken aback by his cool attitude.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," the doctor says honestly, and this too earns him confused raised eyebrows.

"What have you to be sorry for?" The brunette sounds genuinely curious.

"It's your brother, Sherlock," John tries to clarify, but surely he shouldn't have to explain that. "It must be difficult; I feel sorry for you."

"The fact that the victim is my brother is perfectly irrelevant." The detective's voice takes a sourer tone. "As I've said earlier, this is merely an interesting case."

_That_ effectively shuts John up.

One hour thirty minutes and one successful landing later, they find themselves in Geneva, Switzerland with sixteen minutes to make it from the airport to the nearby station before their night-train to Berlin departs. They rush through the brightly laminated hallways and make it through hordes of tourists coming and going; exit one building, enter another; take a flight of steps down, then another one, until finally they reach platform three. The train is already there and they quickly get in. John grumbles at the missed opportunity to buy some real Swiss Chocolate.

It's a thirteen hour ride and John naps most of the way. Sherlock keeps typing on his phone, soaking in as much information on the German capital city as he can. He looks at maps and reads about the various districts, finds out which ones are reputable places and which ones are the shady kinds where you don't want to be after nightfall. He studies the structure of the German judicial system – the police especially – because they are bound to cross paths at some point and it is always handy to know how the _enemy_ works.

Switzerland flies by their window, a lake and then the countryside, fields of green, cities and some forests and eventually, at some point in the night, they cross the Swiss-German border.

o0o

The sun rises while they're somewhere in Baden-Württemberg, not far from the French-German border.

John is fast asleep and Sherlock is looking absentmindedly out of the window. The countryside flies by quickly and he can see they're travelling along the river Rhine. He spoke with Anthea, a little while ago, and the young woman has rallied the latest information the Germans have gathered. The chauffeur who was supposed to drive his brother back to his hotel has been found, dead, in his apartment – his working clothes and ID card stolen.

No ransom or demands have been made for Mycroft and they still have no idea who could have orchestrated the kidnapping. _This isn't good,_ Sherlock knows. Whoever is behind this is well organized and not afraid to shed blood. The fact that they haven't made any demands means that his sibling has been targeted specifically and that they are more than likely after some information that _he_ possesses. Weighted down by the implications of this fact, Sherlock leans forward to rest his head against the cool window. He can feel the beginning of a headache creeping in. _Mycroft_, he thinks, something in his chest painfully constricting, _what are they going to do to you?_

He breathes out deeply, as he tries to re-centre his thoughts. He can't let his worry cloud his judgement and alter his concentration. He knows he has to stay focused, if he wants to be efficient. With one last look at the flying by German countryside, he destroys the last bits of stirring inner turmoil and goes back to his phone to continue his researches.

oOo

Mycroft Holmes stirs to consciousness, when a persistently annoying ray of sunshine hits his face. The pain wakes up along with him and he groans, stilling his movements. He opens gritty eyes and takes stock of his surroundings. Unsurprisingly, he is still in the old warehouse where he had fallen asleep – well, _passed out,_ if you truly wanted to be accurate – the last day.

He raises his head – painful knotted muscles in his neck protesting vividly – to look around for signs of his captors. It seems he is still alone – thank god for small mercies. But considering he is alone and bound to a metallic chair in a deserted warehouse somewhere in Germany, there isn't so much mercy to his current situation, after all.

He forces himself to breath slowly, so as to not put too much pressure on his strained chest, as he looks around for a way out. The room is unnervingly bare, with nothing in sight that could be of help. There is a reel of electric cable in a corner, but way out of reach. There's an old rusty metallic worktop against the farthest wall. The windows are covered by planks of wood which only let in small rays of sun, making the interior of the warehouse even gloomier and the red brick dust covering the floor look like a bad omen.

Mycroft sighs, trying to straighten his back and flex his arms a little to re-establish blood circulation within the bound members. He sniffs, realising his nose feels watery. They are still in the first half of March and the temperature is barely above freezing. Although he has spent the night inside: a crumpled, bled upon and torn apart three piece suit is not enough to keep him adequately warm, even when it's made out of the finest materials. If his captors don't move him to another facility soon, he will have to add 'hypothermia' to his quickly growing list of worries. _Well, that is if I live long enough for the illness to develop,_ he thinks bitterly.

The metallic door to his left creaks open loudly and he inhales deeply, as he carefully schools his features into total blankness. A tall and burly man soon comes in his line of sight. Short brown hair, determined dark gaze and a hard-set angular jaw. He wears a padded black jacket that looks comfy and warm and which Mycroft envies for a second, before he notices the fisted hands at the end of the elms which are clearly itching for some action. It sadly looks like today is going to be a repeat of yesterday.

"Guten Morgen, mein Freund," the man greets, in a thick Bavarian accent, the 'r' rolling heavily on his tongue. "Hast Du heute Lust, mit mir zu sprechen?"

Mycroft hesitates to answer 'No, I still don't feel like talking today,sorry_'_. He remains silent however, thinking petty comebacks were unbecoming of him. That's something good for Sherlock; _he_ is above that.

"Nein?" the man nags, when no answer meets his words.

His silence and refusal to speak doesn't seem to disappoint his interrogator so much. Mycroft sees a glint of something akin to bloodlust in the other man's eyes and it makes his blood grow cold, even as he braces himself for what he knows is to come.

The German's lips curl in a displeasing and twisted smile and he swings his arm back to gain momentum. Seconds later his right fist takes the breath out of the elder Holmes. Left, right, left; chest, chin, stomach and Mycroft is seeing stars. The pain is blinding and all the wounds from the previous day are re-awoken by this new onslaught of violence. The Englishman is panting when the boxer finally takes a rest.

The burly man looms closer. "Wirst Du jetzt vielleicht sprechen?"

Mycroft still don't feel like talking. He spits out a mix of blood and saliva at the man's feet instead. Not very dignified, he knows, but he thinks this gets the point across just fine.

The dark sneer distorting the other's face only grows bigger, as he swings his arm back again. The next punch brings a new flow of blood in Mycroft's mouth and knocks out a molar.

He tries to block out the pain. It's a technique he's learned a long time ago, earlier in his career, while he was working for the Secret Service. If he can focus his thoughts intently enough on one single point then all the rest can disappear. It's mind over matter, in a sort of twisted way.

'Find something strong to hold on to, something that brings comfort and hope,' one of his teachers once told him. 'A reason to keep fighting.'

His mind doesn't need long to latch onto something familiar and powerful. He closes his eyes and soon the only thing he can see is a young boy with curly raven-black hair, bright-blue eyes radiating intelligence and a smile that says, _I love you big brother._

All the rest simply fades away to a distant thrumming.

**TBC.**


	3. Chapter 2

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 2.

It's a little after noon when Sherlock and John finally enter the British embassy, in Berlin. They are expected and the woman at the reception quickly takes them to the ambassador himself. He's a stressed out man in his forties, with blonde hair going grey, round hazel eyes and a faked smile that you can only find in actors and politicians.

"Mr Holmes, Mr Watson," he greets them, in a southern British accent – Oxford, the consulting detective thinks. "Very pleased to meet you, although the circumstances are regrettable."

John shakes his hand politely; Sherlock keeps his gloved fingers resolutely by his sides.

"What was my brother doing here?" he questions. He already has the answer, obviously, but he wants to know if this man has access to any sensitive information or if he's merely a pawn that is going to do nothing but waste his precious time.

"He had a meeting with some of the heads of the German Security Services," the ambassador correctly replies.

Sherlock motions for him to continue.

"It wasn't the first time they met, but I've been told there was nothing overtly sensitive to discuss this time. It was merely a follow up of some older-" he seems to hesitate minutely over the word to use "-_topics_, shall we say; as well as a standard exchange of information on current _affairs_ happening in both countries."

Political jargon, Sherlock finds, is very unnerving. This constant habit of talking in coded-words, enouncing only half-truths is unnecessarily lengthening the conversation and he still isn't sure how much the man truly knows.

"Which _topics_?" His impatience creeps in.

The blonde seems reluctant to answer, or maybe it's a sign he has reached the limits of his knowledge. He gives a quick look at the phone sitting on his desk, before finally making up his mind.

"This is top secret, I shouldn't be telling you about this," he grounds out, and Sherlock understands he must have received orders – most likely directly from Whitehall – to fill them in on everything. "Mr Holmes helped the German Secret Service in their fight against a terrorist group at the end of last year. He helped craft a plan to thwart one of their attacks."

"The Berlin-Dusseldorf plane that mysteriously crashed, without making any real casualties." Sherlock quickly makes the connection to the German version of his brother's Coventry plan. The ambassador seems surprised that he knows about that; Sherlock is equally surprised that the ambassador does.

"Yes, it was your brother's idea. Brilliant idea, I might add. It saved a lot of lives. I heard there was a similar plan set in London recently, but something must have gone wrong because it never took off."

Sherlock tightens his jaw at that. He doesn't need to hear more on this specific subject; he already knows everything. He and his own foolishness were the only reasons why that particular plane never took off.

"The terrorist group behind the attack?" John wisely redirects the discussion well away from the Irene Adler fiasco.

"Die Schwarze Nadel," the ambassador replies.

"The black needle," Sherlock translates, almost immediately. His friend gives him a surprised look at that.

"Yes, a local branch of a jihadist group. They were very active in the early nineties; on top of the German's most wanted list, back then."

"Were?" The doctor prompts him to continue.

"Yes, I believe a lot of their leaders were arrested and the cell became dormant; until very recently when things picked up again."

"New leader, probably," Sherlock surmises. "What more do you know on them?"

"That's about all I know, unfortunately." The ambassador's expression seems to darken a little and John feels uneasiness emanate from the man.

"What is it?" he questions.

"Mr Holmes' _disappearance_ is being investigated by the police," he tells them, clearly weighting his words carefully. "I spoke with the Minister of Foreign Affairs yesterday and he assured me that they are taking this case very seriously. But, they will not pursue the terrorist angle for the moment."

"Why not?" Sherlock questions indignantly. "It's obviously linked."

"This is Germany, Mr Holmes," the ambassador replies. "Relationships with the Middle East are complicated and it's a very sensitive matter. They will not imply this was a terrorist act unless they're absolutely certain of it; nor will they disclose any further information on this subject."

Sherlock huffs at that. "I will find my brother without their help then."

John feels his friend is ready to leave. "Sherlock." He raises a hand to halt his departure. "Who's leading the investigation?" he demands of the ambassador.

"Kriminalhauptkommissar Jan Fischer," he informs them. "My assistant will take you to him if you wish."

"Criminal police?" Sherlock frowns.

"Yes," the ambassador confirms. "We're keeping the Bundesgrenzschutz – the federal police – out of this, until we know more."

o0o

The criminal section of the German police – or KDD (stands for Kriminaldauerdienst, Sherlock points out) as it's called here - seems to be the equivalent of Lestrade's division in Scotland Yard. Their office also resembles their British counterpart: rows of desks with computers and phones, all of it wrapped up in a tall concrete building. They don't have as many windows though, the blogger notes with a touch of British pride.

They are taken straight to the office of KHK Fischer and the embassy employee they have been flunked with – Ian Hower, thirty something, going bald, overweight, single – is quick to introduce them in proper, yet clearly tinged with a British drawl, German.

He then kindly reminds the commissar that he was specifically instructed by the Department of Foreign Affairs to give them total access for the whole duration of this highly sensitive case. John doesn't need to understand German to realize that the policeman facing him is not pleased to meet them. He gives the newcomers a tight-lipped 'Guten Tag' and a long once over.

He seems to be somewhere between forty and forty-five; strong build, overall good shape and short dark brown hair complete the picture of your typical sturdy copper. His thick and dark eyebrows come closer in a crease, when his sharp brown eyes rake over Sherlock who is sporting his usual long dark coat, blue scarf and high cheekbones.

"Ich verlange einen vollständigen Bericht über den Fall!" the detective requests, clearly unfazed by the scrutiny.

Knowing him, John guesses he must not be saying 'Hello, pleased to meet you' but rather asking for an update on his brother's case. _And since when does Sherlock speak German?_ he asks himself.

"I speak your language, Herr Holmes." The commissar's voice comes out with a thick German accent.

Ian Hower, not feeling so much needed anymore, quickly excuses himself to go and make some phone calls in the hallway.

"We have the camera video from the building where the meeting was. Your brother went in his car and then we lose him in the traffic," the commissar explains slowly. He clearly isn't used to speaking in English and it takes him time to find his words. "We know it wasn't the real driver behind the… _Lenkrad?"_

"Steering wheel," Sherlock translates almost instantly, motioning for him to carry on. It's hard for him to restrain from correcting the policeman's poor grammar as well.

"Ja, behind the steering wheel. The driver was found dead in his home, this morning. Murder."

"Yes, yes I know that." The detective's impatience is starting to show. "What else do you know, have you got any leads?"

John tries to give him a warning look, thinking it wise not to anger the only man who could help them find Mycroft but Sherlock doesn't seem very receptive. He's nervous, John can see, balancing his weight from one foot to the other, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. _So much for cold detachment,_ John thinks.

"We tried to locate your brother's phone but it's inactive." The KHK informs them sternly, apparently not appreciating the younger man's tone at all. "We are tracing his call history. We have put an alert on him in our system, and on the _auto_.

"And if you are done with your questions. Würde ich gerne zu meiner Arbeit zurückkehren, die Ihrer Meinung nach nicht schnell genug geht. Und die viel schneller gehen würde, wenn Sie aufhören würden, mich zu belästigen!" he finishes, rushing the words out quickly in one go. They are paired with a dark look, and the voice of a man whose temper is flaring. He storms out of his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

"What did he say?" John questions the detective. "Clearly not that he's very fond of you and that he will gladly help us find Mycroft, I guess?"

"I would like to go back to my work which clearly isn't going fast enough for your liking. And which would go a lot faster if you stopped bothering me." The brunette translates word for word before turning to his left to follow the German policeman out, ready for round two.

"Sherlock, wait!" John grabs his arm to halt him. "I understand that you want to find Mycroft quickly and you're frustrated but _please_ take it down a notch. We're on foreign soil, with no backup and no idea how things work here. We need this man's help."

"I don't n-" the young man starts.

"Yes you do!" John cuts him bluntly. "And you know it. So please, just accept it and stop being a complete arse for once." He realizes his voice is raised and he takes a breath to calm himself before continuing. "If terrorists have Mycroft, he doesn't have much time. It'll be faster to find him with the local police's help."

"Fine," Sherlock finally breathes out, so voicelessly that he can pretend it never really happened and John lets him go. He follows him out, as they search for their vanishing angry German commissar.

In the hallway, Ian Hower happily points them in the right direction, before excusing himself. It's clear that his services as a translator are not really needed and he does have a real job to get back to. He promises to keep in touch though, and gives his compatriots his personal number and makes them promise not to hesitate to call him, should they require any assistance. Before departing, he assures them that the Embassy will keep a close eye on this case and make sure that everything that can be done to find Mycroft Holmes will indeed be done.

Sherlock and John, finally find the commissar in what seems to be a tech-room, standing in front of large 40 by 30 inches computer screen. There's a younger man – with lanky limbs and curly ginger hair – also in the room, sitting behind the keyboard.

"This is my colleague, Kriminaloberkommissar Mirko Lehmann," KHK Fischer informs them. He seems to have calmed down some, but his tone is still very cold. The younger policeman, on the other hand, seems much kinder. He gives them a smile and a polite 'Hello'.

"Is this my brother's phone record?" Sherlock looks pointedly at the screen.

"Korrekt," the commissar says. "There is nothing unusual since he arrived in Berlin, on Tuesday morning. The last phone call however was made the night he disappeared, twenty minutes after we lost sight of him."

Sherlock's eyes lock onto the German policeman at that, fixing him with intensity.

"The call went to England but we cannot trace the number, it's protected. We're trying to crack it but it's difficult," his colleague explains, in rather fluent English but with a still definite German accent.

"I'll save you the trouble, the number is 07700942208." The consulting detective's tone is clipped, his voice cold.

"Sherlock that's-" John starts, recognizing the number instantly.

"Yes John, my number. I know."

"Why didn't you say you spoke with your brother?" the Hauptkomissar questions, his temper flaring up again.

"I _didn't_," Sherlock replies. Then he thinks maybe he should clarify, because John told him to play nice. "I didn't speak to him; he left me a voice mail which was erased without being played."

The German senior policeman gives him an odd look at that, and Sherlock silently dares him to comment on the state of his relationship with his brother, itching for a good fight.

"Do you know where the phone call originated form?" John interrupts the staring contest.

"We cannot trace the exact location." The ginger-haired policeman clicks on a few keys and brings up a map of Berlin on the screen. "This is the best we can do now." A roughly twenty miles radius red circle appears, enveloping a large part of the western side of the capital.

"You can't narrow it down?" Sherlock glares at him.

"It's difficult. Your brother has a protected phone. The embassy gave us the codes but our system has difficulties with it," the KOK explains. "I need more time. Maybe I can find the right relay tower but it will be the best I can do."

"How long?" the detective enquires.

"Thirty minutes, one hour," he replies with uncertainty. "It will help now that we have the recipient's number."

Sherlock is about to say something unpleasant about German police efficiency, but John beats him to it.

"Do you have a cafeteria in here?" The question is so unexpected and unrelated, the detective is momentarily speechless. He looks at his friend as if he's just grown two heads.

"Go back to the lift and go to the fourth floor," the eldest officer replies.

"Danke," John says, finally able to use one of the few German words he knows. He grabs a fistful of the detective's cuff and yanks on it until they're both out of the door.

o0o

"I didn't know you speak German," John says evenly, after swallowing down a large bit of the sausage he was served – _Bratwurst_ being one of the only other words in German he knows. _Pasta_ apparently also works here, he found out, although the woman serving him corrected the slang with a word that sounded like a sneeze.

"Our father insisted we learn several languages; an imperative, according to him, to be successful in this world," Sherlock replies, almost absently.

"Well, I don't know about successful; but definitely useful." John points at the younger man's untouched plate, with his knife. "Eat something."

Picking up his cutlery, Sherlock sighs, before twirling some pasta around his fork and swallowing it. He forces a second bite down, before setting his utensils back on the side of his plate. He hates this waiting; everything is moving so slowly here, it's hugely annoying.

He remembers seeing a clock when they entered the cafeteria. As he looks up to peer at it – somewhere on the left, behind his friend – he crosses his flatmate's gaze. He is momentarily surprised by the expression on the other man's face. _Worry_ and _concern_, it would seem, but Sherlock isn't always sure about people's emotions. Well, he thinks, he's gotten pretty good with John's at least.

"What is it?" He sincerely hopes it isn't his lack of appetite that has the good doctor worried.

The blogger seems to falter a little under the inquisitive gaze now directed at him. He opens his mouth, hesitates on what to say and closes it again. Then finally, after a long breath, the words come.

"What the commissar said," he starts slowly, clearly unsure how to phrase his thoughts. "Mycroft called you that night-"

Sherlock doesn't hear the full stop at the end of his friend's sentence, so he waits for a continuation. When a good twenty seconds have passed, he makes an exasperated 'carry on' motion with his hand.

"You made me erase his message," John finally forces out, looking now somewhat… _pained?_ Sherlock surmises. He really cannot understand why he would be so upset.

"So?" He is tired already of trying to guess at what was wrong again. "Wasn't the first time."

"Sherlock!" The former soldier all but shouts at him.

_Outrage,_ the detective catalogues the new emotion and adds it to the list, which is still not making sense.

John seems surprised at his own outburst and he looks around at the heads which have suddenly turned their way. He rapidly hangs his own head down and redirects his gaze at his plate. He takes a mouthful of pasta and sausage, clearly to give himself time to collect his thoughts.

"Your brother," he starts again – in a normal, if a little terse, voice – after washing down the food with a gulp of water, "called you, after he was kidnapped by god-knows-who. He left you a message which you never listened to," John points the accusing knife at him again, as he continues, "which could have been a plea for help or could have contained clues or whatever. But you had me delete it!"

"Is there a point to this, or are you just stating the obvious?" the brunette interrupts eventually, when John finally stops to take a breath.

"A point! I'll tell you what the bloody point is Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire." John's voice rises again in volume and he has to make an effort to keep it below head-turning level. "Mycroft could be dead already and this may have been his last message and_ I deleted it!_ Here is what the bloody point is, Sherlock!"

He drops his knife at the end of his outburst. It falls to the metallic table with a loud clack of finality that resounds deep in Sherlock's ears.

_Stating the obvious again_, the young man thinks, but this time the words don't make it past his throat. There's a lump of _something_ blocking the way. He tries to swallow it down but it doesn't move.

"Do you even care? Do you even feel the least bit sorry?" John is this time. He gazes at Sherlock with an intensity that has the detective looking away.

Sherlock reaches for his glass instead of answering and forces down a large gulp of water. It does little to alleviate the tightening of his airway, and his voice comes out weaker than usual when he replies.

"Would it help if I did, if I blamed myself? I could also start making a long list of all the times I let Mycroft down; then maybe I could cry a little on your shoulder too. Tell me John, would _any of that_ make me find him faster?"

He was aiming for bitterness and sarcasm, but the words come out a little too desperate for his liking. Not to mention the slight quiver over his brother's first name. _Damn it, get it in check,_ he berates himself. He knows the answers to his own questions: it's a lesson he's learned a long time ago. Emotions are a hindrance in his job. He'd seen it happen countless times in others: they get carried away and forget about safety; or they overlook crucial details because of preconceived certitudes; or his personal favourite... un-acceptance of failure resulting in self-harm.

_No!_ Sherlock Holmes knows better than that. He grabs all these fleeting emotions and drags them to his mind palace. He goes down to the basement, crosses through all the mess that clutters the place and finds the little door which leads even lower... to the crypt. He opens it and tosses all the unwanted emotions down the stairs before locking the iron-wrought door closed again. _Good riddance!_

His thoughts instantly feel clearer and the oddness in his throat is gone. He gazes back at John, who still looks at him with something akin to disbelief on his face; then he peers up at the clock and realizes they've been here for the past twenty minutes. He decides it's more than enough and sits up.

"Come on, John." He shrugs his coat back on. "Let's see if those idiots have finally made some progress."

oOo

Fischer and Lehmann are still in the tech room when Holmes and Watson re-enter.

"Have you made any progress?" the consulting detective asks at once, and John can clearly see the senior officer make an effort to restrain himself from letting out a biting retort.

"Actually yes," his younger colleague replies, quickly typing some commands on his keyboard. A few seconds later a red circle appears on a part of the Berliner map displayed on the screen.

"I found the tower which relayed your brother's call. It helped to have your number." A white point and a thin red circle appear on the screen and both Englishmen anxiously await further information.

"On the screen, you can see the tower and the zone it covers. I can't pinpoint the exact location of your brother, but he was within this area when he called."

"That has to be at least two miles," Sherlock sighs, thinking it's not helping much.

"The relay covers a large part of Tiergarten on the east; it's one of the largest parks in the city." Fisher finally joins the conversation. "I'm sending two units there to search the area."

"We're coming along." Sherlock looks the German straight in the eye, daring him to tell him it isn't possible. The foreigner wisely remains silent. He motions for his colleague to sit up and the four of them are out of the door within a minute.

The ride to West-Berlin is spent in comfortable silence. The young detective passes the time on his phone, pulling up various maps of the park and its surroundings and John gazes out the window to catch as much of the city as he can. The two men are sitting in the back of a police car, as per Fischer's orders that a young woman easily navigates through the midday rush. _Turns out the man does have a sense of humour after all,_ John realises

Their appointed chauffeur had introduced herself as Jenny Wittwer, when they left. She is wearing a uniform, and John guesses she must be the German equivalent of a constable. She's petite, with short strawberry blonde hair and freckles. After ten minutes of silence, she turns the radio on and a German pop song comes on.

The doctor absentmindedly listens to the music as he watches the city flying by, through the window. The song must have something to do with time, he guesses. The female singer keeps saying the word 'Zeit' which he knows means 'time', but the rest of lyrics are lost on him. He hesitates to ask Sherlock, surely he could translate.

With one sidelong look at the younger man, he refrains himself from asking. The brunette is still clicking furiously on his phone and the nervousness which emanates from him is undeniable. The doctor thinks back on their discussion in the cafeteria. Sherlock can pretend all he wants that he doesn't care and is unaffected by what is going on, but John knows it isn't true.

'Zeit bleibt nicht stehen,' the young singer keeps repeating distantly in the background. _Time doesn't what?_ John wonders. But it's too late, the song is over and a new one begins. Still the same singer, the blogger recognizes her voice. It's a slower song, more melodic and no doubt sadder. The former soldier only gets a few words here and there – ice, hand – and once again, it's not enough to make out the meaning behind the lyrics. He gives up trying, eventually.

The buildings he sees, through the window, change from offices to residential until they disappear altogether, as they drive by some sturdy trees. Wittwer finally stops the car on the side of a small gravelly road, next to Fischer's dark Mercedes.

**TBC.**

* * *

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	4. Chapter 3

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 3.

The senior commissar sends his units to patrol the area. The research zone is wide and although most of it is inside the park, he still sends some of his men to question the nearby neighbours and see if anyone has noticed something unusual happening on Tuesday night.

The spring air is chilling and John regrets not having taken some gloves along. He stuffs his hands deep within his pockets as he follows Sherlock down a road that leads inside the park. They don't even know what they're looking for. There might be nothing to find. Still, it's their only lead and John keeps his head down, eyes relentlessly searching the ground around them. Minutes pass by and the doctor momentarily frees one hand from the warm confine of his pocket to quickly zip his jacket all the way up to his chin, the hand rapidly returns to its warm hideout.

Gloves _and_ a scarf, here's what one should always take along when going to Germany, in bloody March. But of course when one's flatmate is named Sherlock Holmes and he suddenly decides to jump in the first available plane for an impromptu trip across the channel and you only have a few seconds to gather your wits, one tends not to think much further than credit card and ID.

The former soldier is jarred out of his thoughts, when Sherlock first stops and then takes two quick steps towards some bushes.

"Found something?" John questions after him.

An affirmative 'hmm' is his only reply, as the younger man stretches his hand through the trees to grab something. He turns back to John, black leather covered fingers holding out a little patch of grey cloth.

"Linen and wool; high quality fibres; comes from an expensive suit," the detective rattles on immediately.

"Mycroft's?"

"Most likely." Sherlock sniffs at the cloth. His brow creases and his nose wrinkles.

He holds it out to John then and motions for him to do the same. He complies, having long since decided that nothing was weird anymore in his world. He takes a whiff of the cloth and finds something he isn't expecting. It's a sweet antiseptic-like smell which he recognizes instantly.

"Chloroform."

"It's not very original but highly effective when dosed correctly," Sherlock confirms.

"They must have drugged him in the car," John theorises, "to make sure that he wasn't going to try and escape."

"Only they got the dosage wrong and he _did_ escape," his friend cheerfully adds.

_The chase is on_, he would probably have said if the victim they were after was anyone else but his own brother. This time, he remains silent as he turns back on his heel and pushes inside the vegetation. He makes his way through the branches and bushes, and follows the path the elder Holmes most likely took, two days ago.

They don't find other signs of Mycroft's presence on the way. The ground is dry under their heels and after the first few thorny branches, the path widens enough to let a man through without tearing his clothes to shreds. They walk for five minutes and the path opens up on a small dirt road, large enough for a car to drive on. There are not so many trees anymore and the recent rains have left some puddles and mud here and there. Large car tracks are visible in the dirt and Sherlock squats down to study them intently.

"A car arrived from this direction." He points to his right. "It stopped abruptly here and then went back to where it came from in reverse."

He takes a few steps to his left, looks at the grass on the side of the road and then turns on himself completely, spreading his gaze all around him, with his jaw set hard.

He is momentarily distracted by a noise of breaking wood coming from the other side of the road. The two German commissars appear through the vegetation.

"Haben Sie was?" The eldest questions them, momentarily forgetting to address them in English.

"My brother was here. They drugged him in the car, but he managed to escape, probably near the main road. He ran away in the woods, through this path and came here." Sherlock indicates the way John and himself came from, with a raised arm. "He stopped for a while and they caught up with him again," he finishes, pointing at the track marks on the dirt road.

"Why would he stop?" Fischer questions. "He should have kept running."

Sherlock's blue-grey eyes quickly travel down to the ground at the question, in search of the answer; they roam the earth and rocks and strands of herb relentlessly, but he doesn't find any. There are faint footprints which could be Mycroft's. They indicate a tall man, coming in from the forest in quick rapid steps. Then, there are two prints next to each other, a left and a right. The telltale of a man who stopped to look at where he was, staying poised a few seconds to make a decision on the direction to take next. Then the motion resumed forward, a right foot first, followed by a left. But by this point, the man was no-longer running, the prints are closer to each other, his stride shorter.

Nothing that the detective can see explains his brother's choice. He should have kept running, while he had the chance. He should have tried to put as much distance between him and his pursuers as he could. Why had he chosen to slow down and - Sherlock's brow furrows as he notices a right and a left footprint next to each other again - stop a second time?

"He called you." John's voice drifts to his ears then and he quickly looks up, startled to find his flatmate standing right next to him. He had been too concentrated on his research to hear him approach. Then his mind catches up with his friend's words and the pieces of the puzzle neatly fall into place.

Mycroft stopped to take his phone out and call him. He walked slowly while it rang, to allow himself time to get his breath back enough to be able to speak clearly. Then he stopped when he left the message on Sherlock's phone and that was when the car of the kidnappers rounded on him again. They found him poised in the middle of the road - like the proverbial deer in the headlight - and Mycroft had had no choice but to surrender or risk getting shot in the back if he tried to make a run for it.

New words drift to him then, spoken in German this time, and he faintly registers Fisher barking orders in his phone for his team to come and secure the area. Sherlock pays him no mind; he cannot tear his eyes away from the faint footprints of his brother on the dark dirt. His mind seems to have hit a temporary standstill. It cannot process further than the current thought which is repeating itself on a loop, echoing loudly in his brain. _Mycroft called you,_ it says again and again, _he called you for help and you didn't pick up_. He can't think further than that; his mind is like a broken record.

John's hands are on him suddenly - one hand in the middle of his back and another at his right elbow - pushing and pulling. The doctor forces him to move again and he doesn't have the energy to object. He follows his friend blindly until he sits on something a tad uncomfortable, but he doesn't really care. Actually, he finds it's a great relief to be finally sitting because he isn't sure how much longer he could have remained standing. His knees feel weak and his breath comes in oddly short puffs, as if there wasn't enough oxygen in the air anymore.

When his thought process finally resumes at a somewhat normal pace, the detective finds himself sitting on the rim of the open boot of Wittwer's car. John is next to him and he's holding his hand. Sherlock looks down at their joint limbs in puzzlement and realises that _no_, it's the other way around actually. It's his very own glove-clad fingers which are currently clasping hard around the doctor's smaller naked digits. The detective forces himself to release his tight grasp and let go. The blonde flexes his fingers immediately, and massages his left hand with his right as if to restore blood circulation.

"Sorry." Sherlock realizes he must have been holding onto John too tightly for comfort.

"It's okay. Are you alright?"

Sherlock looks away quickly. "I'm fine," he says, wondering who exactly he was trying to convince with this statement.

"We'll find him, Sherlock." John pats on his shoulder reassuringly.

It's a pretty stupid thing to say, the detective knows. There is no certainty that they will ever find Mycroft. Maybe he is still alive, but he could also very well be dead already and Sherlock knows at least ten different ways to make a body completely disappear.

He wants to tell John as much, tell him to stick to facts and stop making idle suppositions, but he cannot find his voice anymore. There's something thick in his throat again, a lump he cannot dislodge. He remains silent and his friend's words echo loudly in his ears - _we'll find him_ - oh, how much does he want to believe in those words.

oOo

_Day number two,_ Mycroft reminds himself, when he's regained enough consciousness to form coherent thoughts. He blinks slowly to try to sharpen his vision. It works for his right eye but the other one seems to be a lost cause. It's probably a bruise that is starting to swell, he guesses. He cranes his neck to the left and looks at the windows and the small rays of sun that filters through. _Late afternoon,_ he estimates from the light's intensity.

"Welcome back," a voice says, on his right, and it takes Mycroft longer than he would have wanted to turn his head in the correct direction. He fixes his gaze on the newcomer, who is comfortably sitting in a plastic chair, a few feet away.

"I was starting to wonder if I had let Peter play with you for too long," the man explains with dark mirth. He seems to be roughly the same age as Mycroft, but he's shorter and he has dark brown hair and tanned skin. His English is very good; it reveals a scholarship within the UK, although faint traces of his Middle Eastern origins can still be heard.

Mycroft tries to sneer at him, but he's afraid the effect might be somewhat off, with his battered face.

"Peter tells me you don't want to talk," the man continues in a pleasant tone as if he was politely chatting with a friend. "It's rather impolite of you, Mr Holmes."

He stands up at that and he approaches the Englishman with a glass of water. Mycroft closes his parched lips shut.

"It's only water," his captor assures him. "Unlike you, we are very polite."

He raises the glass to his lips and seems content to wait until Mycroft has emptied it.

"Thank you. Releasing me would also be a polite gesture."

"I'm afraid this will not be possible." The man sits back down. "Where I come from, an offence cannot go unpunished. It would be a sign of weakness, you understand.

"Tell me, Mr Holmes. Do you know who I am?" the man questions, after a little moment of silence.

"You go by many names, but I believe the real one to be Youssif Kassar. Current leader of the Schwarze Nadel group."

"Good, we won't have to waste time with the introduction," the jihadist praises him. "So you know why you're here, then?"

Mycroft does indeed have an idea why. Yet he chooses to remain silent.

"You placed a spy amongst my followers." His captor's voice takes a darker turn, as his façade starts to crumble. "You spied on me, and then you destroyed my plan!"

He sits up at that, his anger quickly rising and Mycroft braces himself for an incoming punch which doesn't come.

"Do you know how long I worked to place that bomb on this plane? _Months_; months of planning! And all that for nothing!" His voice rises in intensity as he draws nearer. "Do you know how this made me look? They laughed at me!" He spits out the words and this time, the punch does come.

He's not as strong as his colleague - Peter, Mycroft is slow to remember the name - and he can't help himself from raising a challenging eyebrow at his torturer.

"You're going to pay for what you did. This is how we do things in my country." Kassar points an accusing finger at him. "Like your spy, you're going to die. But before you do, I want your list."

"I'm afraid, I don't know what you're referring to." Mycroft lies, sounding as regretful as he can. "I tried to tell that to your friend already."

Kassar gives him a humourless laugh at that, moving away.

"We'll see Mr Holmes, we'll see," he calls back behind his shoulder, as he leaves the room. The door closes after him and Mycroft lets out a long breath.

_Two days_. He has been their captive for two days. People had to be looking for him by now. The British Government certainly knows about his situation and they must be putting pressure on the Germans to find him quickly. It's almost certain Whitehall also sent some of their own to look for him.

The men of Shwarze Nadel have kept him in the same building for all this time and Kassar didn't seem stressed or worried. Those are signs of confidence and this isn't playing in his favour. With his limited knowledge of what is going on, his best course of action is to hold on for as long as he can and wait for someone to come to his rescue.

Patience however isn't of his most forward qualities and neither is dependability. Pushing the pain aside, Mycroft starts to tug at his restraints. He only stills his movements when he hears the door reopening.

Unsurprisingly, Peter soon faces him again, ready for round number _whatever_. Mycroft lost count after number five.

"Noch einmal ganz von vorne," he starts in his deep cavernous voice. "Wo ist die Liste?"

The British man gives him his customary half-spit half-blood reply.

o0o

Mycroft gazes outside of the window at the large forest that lies behind the Holmes Manor. The trees that he usually finds to be green are all covered in white this morning and this brings a happy smile on his face.

He quickly tears himself away from the view and all but runs out of his room. He barges into his brother's bedroom without even knocking and only finds a mop of curly black hair protruding from the mass of blankets that covers the little bed.

"Sherlock, wake up," he urges in a high-pitched voice. "It snowed!"

This seems to get through to the younger boy and the mass of blanket shifts and two silver orbs slowly peer atop of it.

"It snowed, Sherlock," his brother repeats and the blue-grey eyes blink lazily as understanding dawns in them. It takes a few more seconds and then blankets fly as Sherlock jumps out of his bed and runs out of the room. Of course the five year old doesn't take the time to dress up or even put shoes on and Mycroft grumbles as he bends down to catch a pair of his brother's boots.

His head swirls oddly, bile rising up, when he stands back up, shoes in hand. He takes two steps to his left and opens the wardrobe. He reaches inside and grabs the warmest coat he can find and the movement sends sharp needles of pain in his side and he has to stifle a moan. _What is happening to me,_ he wonders briefly. But he knows he doesn't have the time to stay here and ponder the whims of his body. Sherlock's probably already outside and his mother would not be pleased if he catches a cold because he was trotting around the garden in his jammies.

Mycroft finds his younger sibling on the threshold, with only the tip of his toes pressed in the white snow.

"It's cold," the young one tells him, with a pout of his lips.

"And that is why, dear brother, one wears warm clothes and shoes before going out in the snow." He holds out the boots and the coat.

The little boy quickly puts everything on and he runs away, jumping in the white garden and leaving large footprints behind. His sibling follows him with a little more restraint.

"We can't stay outside too long," Mycroft tells his brother eventually. "You're going to catch a cold."

Sherlock is busy using a stick to write letters and symbols in the snow. He traces the word BORING in the white canvas, as a reply.

"You're going to turn into a snowman, if you stay outside too long." His brother tries again.

Sherlock raises his head to look at him with his _what-you're-saying-is-stupid_ face. As he does, his visage takes a darker look as a new expression crosses his features. Surprise mixed with fear, Mycroft realises and he wonders what could have scared the little boy.

"What's wrong Sherlock?" he questions, rapidly. He tries to move closer to his sibling, but his legs are uncooperative. It feels like something is restraining him.

Sherlock is looking at him strangely now, his gaze moving from Mycroft's stomach to the ground at his feet and he follows his brother's line of sight. There's a large patch of red on his shirt and large crimson drops are quickly tainting the white below.

"No," Mycroft says sharply, through the pain that suddenly grips him. _This never happened!_

Another wave of pain assaults him and it takes the breath out of him, cutting short any other word he might have attempted to utter. All the snow around him is crimson red now; even the tip of his little brother's twig is dripping blood.

Pain; sharp, mind-numbingly intense pain assaults him again and the edges of his memory start to blur. He cries out, it's too much and even his subconscious cannot shelter him further. The pain is winning; it's digging him up, dragging him out on an open field and leaving him unprotected.

His eyes latch out to Sherlock, as he tries to hold on to the memory for as long as he can. But eventually the little boy also fades away and his hazy vision refocuses on an angry German with red on his hands.

He feels like drowning, choking on his own blood and he forces himself to spit out the quickly coagulating mass out of his mouth. It grates at the back of his throat and sparks a coughing fit, which in turn sets on fire his broken ribs and bruised-over torso.

The question comes again. "Wo is die Liste?"

"Disneyland," Mycroft replies, with all the disdain he can muster. It comes out as a croak and he's rewarded with a strong punch across the mouth for his efforts.

Thankfully, he blacks out at that moment.

**TBC.**


	5. Chapter 4

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 4.

"Come on Sherlock," John says eventually, jarring him in action again. "There's a hoard of loud German policeman tramping on all our evidence. We can't have that!"

The detective stands up at the words, feels the hesitant beginning of a smile tear at the corners of his mouth. "Can't have that, indeed," he tells John, glad to find he's got his voice back.

They walk back to the car tracks on the dirt road and find that the KDD officers have been very efficient. The entire zone is now secured with large bands of tape; Wittwer takes pictures of the footprints while her colleague moulds some of the tires marks.

The British duo easily duck under the tape and this earns them a raised eyebrow from Fischer who is on the phone nearby. He keeps a stern eye on them while he continues his conversation. _'Don't mess with my crime scene' _he thinks loud enough to be heard clearly.

"It's a good start." John forces cheerfulness in his voice. "Mycroft disappeared in the north of Berlin, and we're in the western part. They were either coming here or taking him south. That eliminates half of the city."

"That's hardly of help," Sherlock counters. He looks over Wittwer's shoulder to make sure that she does her job correctly. The camera's exposition and aperture seem to be well calibrated. "They could have gone anywhere from here. Quite possibly even outside of town."

"Well, at least we know more than we did this morning." John is not ready to be deterred so easily. "And we might find something from the car tracks; find where it's been previously."

Sherlock gazes up to him at that, with a look he normally reserves for Anderson. "Really, John? We already know where it's been: the hotel near the Airport where Mycroft was last seen at. It's over six miles from here. Anything that was on the tires before that was long gone by the time the car arrived here."

"Sorry for trying to help." John shrugs.

Sherlock is about to retort when a thought suddenly hits him. _Something, car, previously_, the words collide against each other in his head, as an idea forms itself.

"Wonderful, John!" He beams, and grabs the doctor's shoulders for a quick squeeze. He walks away in long strides to where the young officer is packing his moulding kit. "Brilliant idea, we need to find out where the kidnappers have been before."

"I thought you said all the evidence of that would be long gone?" John follows him, wondering what the hell is going on.

"On the car, John; _on_ the car." Sherlock turns back to look at him with a pointed finger. His curls bound widely with the motion and his coat follows swiftly when he turns his back to him again, two seconds later.

"I don't get it." The doctor comes to a stop next to Sherlock who's looking intently at the soil again.

"There wouldn't have been anything interesting _on the car_ anymore. But there was one thing which would have retained evidence of a previous location, even up to this point." He takes out his small magnifying glass from his coat pocket. "The soles of the kidnappers' shoes, John."

Understanding dawns on the shorter man at once. And he moves to where the passenger of the car must have come out, to look for clues, while Sherlock searches on the driver's side.

"They had to get out of the car to grab Mycroft." John bends down.

"My brother is very polite, but I doubt he would have entered their car willingly, even at gun point." Sherlock assures him, with a smile that says _the game is on._

o0o

Red-brick dust, electric wire, cast iron particles: three disparate elements and currently their only connection to whoever has kidnapped Mycroft.

Brick, wire and iron: three things that can combine in a large quantity of other things, and that can be found together or on their own, in a hundred different places all over Berlin.

It's not helping them much. It wasn't helping Sherlock when they first got back to the police station and had the elements analyzed in a lab - four hours ago - and it's still not helping him now.

He sits behind a computer - that he commandeered when the battery of his phone finally died - and pulls up maps and charts of Berlin. He digs in healthcare reports, searches for analyses on the air toxicity levels in different parts of town and reads mineral researches done on the capital's soil. There is an overload of data. Apparently when a town has been hugely bombarded less than a century ago, it is customary to conduct _very frequent_ analyses of its grounds and air. But when the city is over three hundred square miles, it's easy to lose yourself within the numbers.

If he were in London, this would be so much easier. There, he could use his precious network and send them scattering all over town to collect fresh and relevant data. They would only look for what he really needs and nothing more. They wouldn't bother themselves with alkaline and copper and brass and _fuck!_ Sherlock mentally curses, as he hits a deadend once again.

He passes a weary palm over his tired eyes and takes a deep breath. He closes the page he just finished reading and pulls up a new document.

o0o

Night falls on the outside world and desk lamps are turned on, while strong fresh coffee is brewed (you just can't find a decent cup of tea in this country).

John reviews the autopsy report on Mycroft's driver's death. It's clearly the work of a professional killer: one single, fatal shot to the chest; death almost instantaneous.

Lehmann types at his computer diligently. He programmed a massive research in their database which encompasses the three elements they've found and he slowly compiles the various results the machine throws back at him.

Fischer has disappeared from the office altogether, to go make his daily report to his superiors and then relay the information to the British Embassy whose constant harassing interest in this case is slowly grating on his nerves.

Thirty minutes past nine o'clock, Wittwer drops by with pizza boxes. She wears her civilian clothes, having clearly finished her service for the day. John thanks her warmly for the food while Mirko Lehmann helps her unload the boxes on a nearby desk. The doctor gets a feeling there is a little _something_ going on between the two and he hopes that, if Sherlock also noticed, he will refrain from commenting on the state of her knees or their choices in deodorant.

Once he's finished with the autopsy file, he puts it back on KHK Fisher's desk and stops to get a slice of pizza on his way back. He grabs one for Sherlock too.

"Not hungry," the younger man says, when John holds it out to him, seconds later.

"You need to eat something Sherlock." He tries to make it sound like a medical order but fails miserably.

"I'm busy." The detective opens a new internet tab and starts a new research to add to the veracity of his words.

"And if you don't eat properly, there will come a time when your body is going to be _too busy_ shutting off because of malnutrition to do anything else." The doctor sternly informs him. "And when I say body, understand it also includes that wonderful brain of yours."

Sherlock sighs and reluctantly reaches for the proffered greasy slice of pizza. He eyes it dubiously, before forcing the tip in his mouth. He munches on it mechanically; the taste doesn't register at all.

"So what are you looking for?" Jenny Wittwer finally asks, after serving the commissar a slice of pizza. She gets a lengthy reply from him in German.

"It's not easy," John says, when Mirko is done with his explanation. "It's a large city and those elements are pretty generic."

"The iron could come from a train track," she offers helpfully. "The friction between the wheel and the track creates a lot of airborne loose debris."

Her colleague gives her an inquiring look at that.

"My uncle works for DB." She smiles at him. "Deutshe Bahn, the German national railway company," she adds for John's benefit.

"Danke, Jenny." The younger man beams at her. "I'll add that to the keywords for the computer research." She blushes at the praise.

John gives her a smile too and Sherlock... well, he doesn't give any indication he has even been listening to the conversation.

"Now we only need to find a brick house near a railroad and some electric wires," the doctor says, reaching for another slice of pizza.

"You think the brick dust comes from a house?" the young woman questions at once.

John thinks back on his words. It was undoubtedly a logical connection to make for an Englishman. Red brick is a traditional material that has been used a lot for building houses in England over the years. Even the walls of the upper floor of 221B Baker Street were built in bricks. But now that he thinks about it, he realizes he hasn't seen a lot of similar buildings in Germany. They seem to favour concrete here.

"It's just a thought." He quickly looks over at Sherlock to see if he still ignores the conversation. He's glad to find his friend hasn't heard him, otherwise he might be getting a lecture on the stupidity of making idle suppositions again.

"A brick house, next to a railway and electricity wires." The young woman mumbles in concentration. She's clearly onto something and both John and Mirko wait anxiously for her next words. Her brow wrinkles in thought and her eyes narrow as she searches for the right recollection.

"Niederschöneweide!" She beams at them.

This word gets Sherlock's attention. He sits up rapidly and takes two quick steps to come near her. His sharp eyes dissect her mentally.

"Why this borough?" He frowns at her. "It came up several times in my searches, why do you think of this one particularly? Why?"

"I- I don't know." She is clearly thrown by the intense and close scrutiny. Her blush spreads "I had a friend who lived there when I was younger. Lots of industrial buildings, some built in red bricks. The KWO used to have warehouses there."

Lehmann doesn't waste time and quickly pulls up a map on his computer. It shows a small quarter in the southern part of the town. It's delimited by the river Spree on the east and a railway on the west.

"KWO?" John questions.

The two Germans answer in unison, "Kabelwerke Oberspree."

"Berliner company, specialised in the production of electric cables," Jenny Wittwer finishes.

oOo

The night traffic is minimal and they quickly make it to Niederschöneweide, and arrive forty minutes before midnight. John and Sherlock are in the back of Wittwer's car again. Instead of a CD, the young woman has turned on her police radio, this time. John can hear different voices barking orders on the line. He motions to the radio with his thumb and raises a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock.

"They're discreetly closing off the main street, Schnellerstrasse. The KWO only had one building which matches what we're looking for. They plan to raid it, as soon as civilians have cleared the area."

Wittwer parks her car, next to the police barrage. As they exit the vehicle, John looks ahead at the old, worn out, red brick buildings. They look abandoned and would be perfect to stash a kidnapped foreigner government representative. The young woman flashes her ID at the two men minding the barrage and they're allowed through. They find Fischer and Lehmann gathered with an armed tactical team, a little bit ahead.

"You stay behind!" Fischer orders them immediately, upon their arrival. The stressful situation makes his German accent more pronounced. "Maybe you can enter, when it's secure."

Then he quickly barks something at Wittwer in his native language and the young woman nods 'yes'. He has a few parting words for Sherlock as well, probably the German version of '_Do as I say, or you'll end up behind bars'_.

o0o

The armed men – with insignias on their shoulders that say GSG9 – disappear in the distance, swift shadows under the feeble moonlight. They progress slowly in a tight formation and the wait is unbearable.

John has his hands clenched in tight fists as he looks straight ahead, tracing their progress. He's familiar with the adrenaline that surges through his veins, it reminds him of Afghanistan and in this moment he's ready for anything.

_An explosion_: it would take him less than five seconds to duck behind the corner of the building and shield himself from the flames; _sniper attack:_ less than three seconds to get cover behind the car; _an armed terrorist jumping at them:_ less than ten seconds to grab Wittwer's gun and shoot him dead.

Yes_,_ the former captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is ready for battle. He is ready for fire, for explosions and detonations. What he isn't ready for, however, is the small whimper which suddenly makes it to his ears, breaking the silence of the night.

He turns his head sharply to his left and stares at Sherlock who stands next to him. The younger man isn't looking at the policemen. He stares hard at the building which lies ahead. There's something in his eyes that John has only seen once before – that fateful night at the swimming pool, when he faced him with a Semtex vest strapped to his torso – _fear_.

Now that he looks at him closely, John notes it's plain to see. The over abundance of water in his eyes, which makes them look even brighter than usual; his laboured breathing which comes in too short; the slight shaking of his hands. Yes, Sherlock is afraid and John berates himself for not having noticed before.

The doctor reacts out of instinct and takes a step closer to his friend and makes a grab for his left wrist. He tightens his fingers around the cold skin in a reassuring grip.

In the distance, the explosion of a door being blown open resounds in the silence.

**TBC.**

* * *

… _and see you next week!_

_I know, I'm evil. But I have to keep you interested, don't I?_


	6. Chapter 5

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 5

"Nothing," Jenny Wittwer says aloud, even as she keeps listening to her superior on the phone. "They didn't find anyone."

She pockets her cell once Fischer is done explaining to her what happened.

"Sorry." She looks up at the detective. "Your brother wasn't in there anymore."

"Anymore?" Sherlock echoes.

"Ja, it's the right place but we are too late. They must have moved him already." She offers him an apologetic smile, which the young man finds oddly unnerving. "You can go in if you want."

The consulting detective doesn't need to be told twice. Long legs take him down the street in less than two minutes. He has to wait for the special task force to exit the building before entering.

In the warehouse, he finds fluorescent tube lights have been tossed in several corners. They cast an eerie greenish glow over the surrounding dark stone. The room is empty, except for a small plastic chair and a larger, stronger, metallic one.

Sherlock is slower as he approaches the main seat, and the blood splatter he finds near its feet look to be as black as ink under the faint light. _Numerous blood splatters_, his analytical mind notes. Large ones, mixed with saliva, near the chair's feet, and smaller ones farther away. _Drops resulting from punches_, he understands. _Delivered with heavy strength,_ he deduces from the pattern.

He can see it in his head; he calculates bodily proportions based on the clues that shine under the fluorescent light; it's easy, so easy to do. The clues neatly present themselves in his mind and he orders them around.

He sees the leader, carefully sitting on the plastic chair, coming and going at intervals. He sees the brute, the man with the brawns, relentlessly punching and kicking the prisoner. He sees red blood flying around, painting the floor like a canvas. He sees the prisoner bounded on his chair, restrained by thick cord, unable to move, passing out at intervals, his only reprieve in this ongoing torture.

The prisoner didn't cooperate, he understands. The prisoner is resistant, he didn't give in and so the torture continued. The fresher blood drops are the farthest, resulting from the more violent punches. It's a sign of the terrorists' growing frustration. But the prisoner still hasn't talked. He's strong, he will resist until the end and this will be the death of him.

A gasp passes Sherlock's lips, as his brilliant mind suddenly remembers who the prisoner truly is. Worse, it stops referring to him as _the prisoner_ and switches to _my brother_ instead, and the young man can feel his insides coil. There's something dark that clenches at his stomach, a vice grip tightens around his heart and suddenly he feels faint.

"Mye._"_ He murmurs his brother's old nickname like a plea, in a broken voice. He takes two steps back, half-stumbling over his own feet, vision swarming.

He looks at the chair again, but this time he sees an entirely different scene. It's no longer a faceless man that is seated there, but his own brother with ginger curls and familiar blue eyes. He looks at the glistening speckles on the floor and knows it's Mycroft's blood - _his own blood_ - and now he pictures his elder sibling bruised and bleeding and hurting and pleading for mercy and _he called you, but you didn't pick up!_ His mind yells at him again.

Sherlock's stomach lurches, as the thought hits him hard, and he barely has the time to move away from the evidence to throw up what little he ate today in a dark corner of the room.

o0o

John who has been hauled up by Fischer - who gave him a quick warning of what was waiting inside - finally nears the entrance of the building. He finds Sherlock sitting against a wall with his knees drawn up. He missed him with the first glance - the Belstaff coat is not easy to spot in the greenish darkness - but his eyes finally catch upon the pale features of his friend's face.

"Sherlock?" He squats down in front of him. "Are you alright?" His friend remains silent, but the doctor can see he is far from fine.

John is torn, unsure what to do, and he quickly looks around for inspiration. He spots a few feet away what used to be a slice of pizza and he minutely frowns in disgust, before he decides to sit down next to the detective. _Not good,_ he thinks humourlessly.

"I saw a lot of nasty stuff during the war." The former soldier doesn't like talking about those days, but today he feels like making an exception. "Treating prisoners who had been interrogated was always difficult. It's hard to think that human beings are capable of inflicting so much pain on others."

Silence falls on them again. In the distance, he can hear German words drift through the half-open door, Fischer ordering his task force to go back home probably, arranging for a team of forensics to come examine the warehouse instead.

"I didn't pick up." Sherlock's hesitant voice breaks the silence. He turns his head to the side and fixes John with a broken stare, blue grey eyes as fathomless as a winter sea. "He called _me_ and I didn't pick up."

"And _I_ deleted the message." The doctor's voice harbours just as much anguish.

Sherlock breaks down then, John can see the exact moment when it happens. His mask slips from his delicate features and it shatters into a million pieces. Pain is etched in each line of his face, along with guilt and remorse and the detective, for the first time, he really looks human, so painfully human.

"This caring thing, it doesn't help John." His voice shudders and his eyelashes bat furiously to fight back threatening tears. "It makes everything so much more complicated. It- It _hurts_," he admits merely louder than a whisper.

"I know," John tells him. "I know."

He reaches an arm out around the younger man's tensed shoulders and drags him closer. Sherlock relents and lets himself being pressed reassuringly against his friend's side. He closes his eyes shut tightly to hold back the tears.

"We'll find him, Sherlock," John murmurs above his head. "I promise you, we'll find him."

The youngest Holmes wants to tell him not to make empty promises, but he doesn't have the heart to. He nods in agreement instead. He wants to believe - oh god, how much does he want to believe.

Sherlock manages to calm down eventually. The emotional turmoil relents and he slowly starts to get a grip on his thoughts again. He forces the worry and the fear back in dark corners and lets his mind become solely analytical again.

He moves away from John and takes a deep breath as he looks again at the crime scene that surrounds them. _The facts_, he knows, _he needs to focus on the facts_. They don't lie, they don't feel emotions, they rarely disappoint and they always, _always_ have a story to tell.

o0o

The drive back to the KDD station is spent in silence. The night is black around them and the streets are deserted.

When they finally arrive at almost one in the morning, most of the building is empty and they find the two commissars in the tech room going over some camera footage.

"It's not too late, there's a chance we might still track them on the traffic camera," Lehmann informs them upon their arrival. "The images only stay in the system for a short amount of time, but if they moved your brother today, then we should see them."

John and Sherlock keep their eyes poised on the large screen as footage from a traffic cam fast-forwards in front of them. The camera is located a little bit higher on the road from where they had to wait while the taskforce team entered the building, John notes. The angle is not perfect, but if a car stopped near where Mycroft was held, it should show up. Cars keep driving by and eventually a white van stops in the distance.

"There," Sherlock all but yells and Lehmann quickly pauses the tape. He rewinds a little and plays the sequence at normal speed.

The van pulls up slowly on the curb and stops in front of the entrance door. The resolution is very weak and it's hard to make out much because of the distance, but there's no denying two minutes later that a tall man is dragged inside the vehicle and it quickly departs.

"I can't get a read on the plate." Lehmann informs them. "But we have a time - eight thirty in the evening - and a place, and I should be able to track them through the city."

He pulls up a list of all the traffic cameras spread throughout West-Berlin and quickly downloads the feed from the closest one. It's one mile north-west of the warehouse and two minutes later the van briefly appears on screen, this time the plate is readable. Unfortunately it matches a light-blue Twingo that was stolen some two weeks ago in Hamburg. They continue the cat and mouse chase and track the vehicle's progress all the way to the A113 highway.

"I can't go further." Mirko Lehmann regrets. "There's no traffic camera on the Autobahn. But we know they were leaving the city."

"Put an alert on the car," Fischer orders him.

"Where does this highway go?" John questions the policemen.

"West, it splits in-" the young man interrupts himself as something flashes on his screen. "Oh!"

"What is it?" Sherlock questions, his attention once again returns fully to the situation at hand.

"We just got a hit from the alert on the licence plate," he tells them, opening the message and instantly bringing up an image of the car taken by a traffic enforcement camera.

"It was flashed at ten forty-three on the A2, near Magdeburg," he reads on.

"Magdeburg, bring that up on the screen." Sherlock imperiously orders, with a flicker of his hand.

The young man quickly complies. "There." He stands up and points at a portion of highway on the large screen. "That's the A2, and here's Magdeburg,"

John looks on and notices the van was indeed going west. It was well over sixty miles outside of Berlin already.

"The highway splits into two, near Magdeburg." The policeman shows them. "The A2 continues north-west to Braunschweig and Hannover, and the A14 goes south to Leipzig and then Dresden."

"We have no way of knowing which direction they took," John says out loud regretfully. He looks at Sherlock with forced hopefulness. "But it's a start, right?"

The detective sports a closed up expression once more and John aches for him. This case seems to be going from one dead end to another.

"We need to go to Magdeburg." He decides finally, with a sense of finality. "There's nothing more for us here in Berlin."

o0o

They take a cab to the train station and it's not hard to find available second class seats in the 3:15 for Magdeburg. The car is almost empty save for some bleary-eyed Berliners starting their working day and two teenagers who clearly haven't gone to sleep yet.

As soon as he is seated, John lifts up his feet and rests them on the opposite bench. Then he makes himself as comfortable as he can, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the large glass window on his left.

The train ride will last almost two hours, and he's going to make the most of it. Mycroft had been right that day, when he said living with Sherlock was like being back on the battlefield. And just like during war times, you had to rest whenever the opportunity presented itself, because there was no knowing when the next break was going to come.

He's quickly out like a light.

o0o

"I spoke with Anthea," Sherlock tells him, as they exit Magdeburg's train station. "Her Majesty's Secret Services still have a few _people_ in the area, but without a clear location there isn't much they can do."

"_Spies_, are you talking about spies?" John wonders if maybe he's still sleeping. _God, I need a coffee,_ he thinks.

"I'm not sure if I'm allowed to say." Sherlock's smirk clearly says, _yes, John: spies_.

"Okay, don't say anything then." He smiles and then eventually sobers up. "What are we going to do now?"

Sherlock doesn't give him any answer as he keeps walking down the street. They pass by some bars and shops, which are still closed and the city looks a little gloomy in the pale morning light. The pavement is still wet from recent rain and the many streetlamps' faint glows are reflected in the puddles.

Eventually, the duo comes up to a crossroad and the younger man stops, seeming somewhat lost.

"Where are we going?" John gazes up at his friend who sports an unreadable expression. Sherlock remains silent, looking left and right, still poised in the same spot.

"I don't know," he murmurs eventually and those are words John hasn't heard from him often.

"I don't know," he repeats with a little more voice to it, looking down at his flatmate this time, with a wounded expression behind his eyes. "John, _I_ don't know."

"Alright." The former soldier grabs him by the elbow. "I do."

He steers him somewhere to his left and eventually forces the younger man inside a cafe.

"You can start by ordering us two coffees and breakfast." He pushes him towards the first booth he finds. "Then we can think of what to do next."

"Guten Morgen." A middle aged plump woman smiles to them, taking a notepad out of her apron.

"Einen Kaffee mit Frühstück." Sherlock mechanically orders.

"Zwei." John holds up his index and middle finger, in case he got the number wrong, but he's almost certain that 'zwei' means 'two'.

The brown aired woman comes back a few minutes later with their order. She places two large cups of coffee in front of both men and a central tray containing bread rolls, marmalades, cheeses, hams and some boiled eggs.

"Alright." The doctor grabs a slice of cheese. "Let's recap what we know."

Sherlock gives him a dubious look, but he continues nonetheless.

"Mycroft arrived on Tuesday for some follow up on that plane thing. He got kidnapped, escaped on the way, got kidnapped again and then he was taken to the warehouse. He stayed there for two days, until late last night when they moved him to somewhere further than Magdeburg." John frowns as he tries to refresh his memory.

"Any idea why they moved him?" he questions further, thinking this could all be over already if they'd gotten to their hideout a little bit earlier.

"Probably because they knew we were coming."

John raises both eyebrows at that. He'd have commented on it too, if he wasn't in the middle of biting down on his bread.

"They knew Mycroft's itinerary, who his driver was; it's not too big an assumption to make that they knew we were making progress." Sherlock explains his reasoning.

"And now, they've moved Mycroft well out of our reach," the blogger says regretfully. "We're lucky to even know they've gone this way."

"They could be anywhere." Some of Sherlock's frustration sweeps through his tone.

"We'll find him," John says, in a reassuring voice.

"You keep saying that, why?" Sherlock frowns at him. "You keep telling me '_We will find him'_ but you can't possibly know this. Why do you keep doing that?"

"I- I don't know," he stammers. "It's what friends do."

"Lie?"

"No, encourage."

"Please refrain yourself. I don't need your _encouragement_ or your pity." Sherlock looks disdainfully outside the window. "I'm fine."

"Clearly," John says sarcastically, as he looks down at his cup.

o0o

"Shouldn't we try to find out who's been babbling on us?" The former soldier offers when most of the breakfast plate is gone (even Sherlock nibbled a bit).

"Too many people involved; it would take too much time. The leak can come from anywhere within the German police, the Foreign Affairs department or even the British Embassy.

"And there's no telling - whoever the mole is - that he or she would know where they are keeping Mycroft prisoner," he adds, after a gulp of coffee.

"Well at least now we're out of their radar." John tries to keep looking at the positive side of their situation, however faint it is.

"Yes, that is why I called Anthea and not the local authorities for further assistance."

"I'm surprised she isn't here with us." John raises both eyebrows suggestively. "She seems to like your brother a lot."

"She's trying to make up for Mycroft's absence as best as she can. She's a bit too swamped for a fieldtrip." Sherlock clearly completely missed what John tried to insinuate.

_The Holmes's and affaire de coeur,_ John thinks,_ two worlds apart._

The detective's phone rings at that moment and he quickly takes it out of his coat pocket.

"Anthea?" John questions.

"No, German cell number." He picks up. "Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor cannot hear the conversation from the other side of the table, but he reads all he can from his friend's face: puzzlement, mild-interest and then total interest in whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying.

"Thank you very much," he says warmly, before hanging up. And whatever the news is, it must be good because those are words Sherlock Holmes rarely utters, and even then, he very, _very_ rarely means it.

"Officer Wittwer," he says. "Brilliant woman that one."

"What has she found?" John takes out his wallet, feeling like they were soon going to leave the little cafe.

"She took another look at all the traffic camera which spotted the van they used to move my brother. She found a small sticker on one of the back windows."

"Sticker?"

"From a little radio station in Halberstadt," he continues, clicking on his phone to pull up a map. John swallows down the last of his coffee.

"Oh, stupid! Stupid, stupid," Sherlock berates himself eventually. Then he pushes his phone over the table so that his friend can have a look.

Halberstadt is a little town at the foot of a nearby large forest, the doctor discovers. So, the kidnappers have gone neither north nor south then. But Holmes and Watson had been too busy looking at the fork that was in front of them, they'd never considered what lay in between the two branches: the large and ominous Harz mountain range that spreads north to south, twenty miles west of Magdeburg.

"Train station?" John questions when he sees Sherlock stand up.

"Hmm hmm." The younger man downs the rest of his coffee in one go as his flatmate leaves a few Euros on the table. The detective quickly exits the little shop and John realises he still has his friend's phone in his hand. He pockets it automatically.

TBC.

* * *

_Thanks a lot for all the kind reviews you left me so far. I'm thrilled to know you guys are enjoying the story._


	7. Chapter 6

_Warning, the author recommends to have a box of tissues, well within reach, whilst reading this chapter._

* * *

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 6.

"It's a bit more than just a forest," Watson reads off from Wikipedia on Holmes' phone. "The Harz is the highest mountain range in northern Germany, it has a length of 68 miles and a width of 22 miles."

The pair are sitting on a train – in a First Class compartment (the only class with remaining free places) – quickly eating up German countryside westbound. It's a very classy atmosphere composed of dark mahogany wood, two small bunk beds and a low table by the glass window. There's also a coat rack and the window has deep red curtains. Neither of the Englishmen pays the decor much attention.

"Mostly woods, a dozen rivers. It's an ideal place to hide someone." The doctor continues scrolling down the page.

"I need to contact Anthea, find out if they have men familiar with the area." Sherlock extends his hand, palm up, for his mobile. John, whose eyes are still downcast, doesn't notice the gesture.

"I need my phone," Holmes says impatiently.

"I'm reading, Sherlock," the blogger tutts, immensely happy at the role reversal. How many times had he wanted to call his sister, Harry, only to find out his friend had used his phone again and then forgot it somewhere else in the flat. He decides to let him sweat it out a little before his good nature takes the better of him again.

"Here." He reaches in his pocket. "Use mine."

Sherlock quickly snatches the little black device from John's fingers and he types in his brother's assistant's number to relay their latest breakthrough. John absentmindedly listens to the conversation, while he reads on. The part about wild animals has him slightly worried.

Once he's done with the article, he decides to save a copy of the page on the phone, just in case. The soldier in him knows it's always useful to have quick access to information on the battlefield. He sighs then. The way Sherlock organizes his files is a bloody mess. It's a clutter of various documents, all stored in the same place; it's like the man has never heard of _folders_.

John looks on at the stupidity of it; he finds a file named 'DNA results K.L.' next to 'Chinese Take Away'. A little bit further down, he discovers 'Locksmiths list' sandwiched between 'Lipsticks shades' and 'Pumpkin types'. He scrolls down and finds the page he has just saved 'Harz Mountain – Wikipedia' is at the very end of the list, just after what seems to be a saved voicemail dated '03/13/2012'. Intrigued - and suddenly having a bad feeling about this - John clicks on it and brings the phone to his ear.

Coldness washes over him at once as the message starts to play and he recognizes the voice talking in the speaker. He instantly feels like he's just jumped in an icy lake and dread spreads throughout his insides. The message isn't long, but John is more than puzzled at the end of it. He looks up at his friend and sees Sherlock is still talking with Anthea, oblivious to the blogger's recent discovery.

He isn't sure if he should tell him. He remembers what the younger man was like in the warehouse last night and he thinks this might be a little too much for him to take at the moment. But then he remembers his friend's broken voice when he'd blamed himself for not picking up the phone when Mycroft called, and he knows what he has to do.

"Anthea will send someone to pick us up at the station," the detective informs him after hanging up_ and_ pocketing John's phone. "She says he's very reliable and he has been ordered to assist us in whatever capacity we may require."

"Good," John says, in half a voice.

"Something wrong?" The detective frowns, being astutely perceptive for once, or maybe it's just a sign of how well he's come to know the other man.

"I - I'm sorry." John looks at the phone in his hand, resolutely not making eye contact with his flatmate.

"I was half-asleep," he adds eventually, "I - I must have pressed the wrong buttons.

"Sorry." He places the phone on the table in front of the detective. Then he stands up and leaves the compartment to give him some privacy.

Sherlock looks at his friend's retreating back with a puzzled expression. Once the door closes after John, he returns his attention to his phone which lies on the table. _Saved message_, he sees. Then he notices the date and comprehension dawns on him.

His hand shakes slightly, as he reaches forward to press play.

"_Sherlock,"_ his brother's voice echoes in the silent cabin, barely more than a whisper; his short breath indicates he's just stopped running. Silence stretches on and then the noise of a car engine can faintly be heard in the distance. It grows louder and his brother's breath comes out a little faster.

"_Goodbye_," Mycroft says at last, his voice trembling even more. Time stretches and the younger Holmes can hear the car getting closer. The silence is punctuated by his brother's laboured breathing and suddenly the message ends and his phone falls silent.

o0o

John re-enters the compartment some ten minutes later. He stops in front of the detective, and Sherlock raises his head slowly, looking up questioningly. He seems so young and innocent in this instant, with his silver eyes wide and wet, and the expression there rips at John's heart, like a sharp knife would. He feels a burning ache in his own chest, in answer to the pain in his friend's gaze.

"I'm sorry," John says softly. He sits down on the side of the little table and brings himself to the younger man's eye level.

Sherlock doesn't offer any reply. He isn't looking at him anymore; his eyes settle on a loose thread in the dark upholstery which he straightens absentmindedly with long porcelain-white fingers.

Their train continues to cross through the countryside and the world flies by, sending rays of sunshine dancing on his friend's pale face. Sparkling speckles of light momentarily colour the vacant expression.

"Are you okay?" the doctor questions eventually and the other man shakes his head 'no', eyes still resolutely downcast.

"Look at me, Sherlock." His voice is firmer and it leaves no room for arguments. This voice comes from the doctor in him; the part of him which is concerned that his friend might be going into some kind of shock.

The detective obeys the familiar tone, chin tentatively raising, eyelashes revealing pale irises and their eyes meet again. John has to force himself to maintain the connection because Sherlock's eyes are filled with so many conflicting emotions all at once, it scares him a little. The quicksilver orbs are empty and full, dead and alive, filled with guilt, remorse and fear. It's the most naked he has ever seen the other man. Sherlock is stripped down to his very soul in this moment and John badly wants to look away because it hurts him to see his friend like this.

He doesn't have to fight long against his impulse to avert his gaze because Sherlock quickly turns his head to the left again. Long lashes blink furiously as he takes in shuddery breaths. He can't continue to look at his flatmate either, to see the compassion and the concern there shakes him to the core, reaching him where he has locked himself away from the world.

The memories are all coming up to the surface now; earlier days, happier days, when everything was simple and he was so certain that his brother would always be there. And then the memories lose their colour and everything becomes darker and uglier. His world is suddenly filled with resentment and hurtful comments, and pain - so much pain that they've inflicted upon each other. It eats at him, at his heart and his soul; this ugly monster that raises its head within him. Sharp teeth and even sharper claws rip him apart from the inside. He tries to hide from it, from the truth and the darkness that is waiting to engulf him.

So he looks away from his friend's gaze, away from the concern there and the care that John so obviously wants to give.

He wishes he could tell him to go away, to leave him alone but he doesn't have the strength for it; doesn't want to risk it. He remains frozen in immobility; he is a fractured porcelain doll and even the softest of wind could be enough to cause all of the pieces to fall apart.

"Sherlock?" John is really worried now, but the detective remains engulfed in his catatonia.

_God, how can I help him,_ he wonders. The young man has so very little experience with emotions and this latest development coupled with the last few days of worrying would be enough to throw almost anyone off balance. John has to find a way to reach him, he knows, before the pain and the remorse eat at his friend too deeply.

"Sherlock, please listen to me," he starts hesitantly. "I know you're hurting and you just want to be left alone."

There's no answer, not even a nod or a shake of the head. The detective remains absolutely still, eyes downcast and almost closed.

"But Sherlock, I've been there. What you're feeling, I know what it's like." John fights hard to keep his voice even. "I just want you to know that you're not alone, okay. It's important that you remember that. And I know things really don't look good right now, but it isn't over yet.

"We are going to find your brother, I promise you that. We will turn over all of that damn mountain if we have to, but we will find him," John promises him, pouring all the determination he can in his voice. "We will find Mycroft and then you can apologize to him."

Tears come then. Falling from Sherlock's left eye and then his right and John's heart breaks all over again. The young man huddles himself in the corner of the bed and he wraps his arms around his torso as thick, hot, cascading tears roll down his cheeks.

The doctor can't help himself from reaching out. He quickly relocates and sits on the bed next to his friend, grabbing the discarded Belstaff coat from the back of a nearby chair in one swift motion. He carefully drapes it around the young man, tries to still the shaking and hold Sherlock together even as he falls apart before his eyes.

Sherlock is so lost within himself he can barely think anymore. Emotions pull at him from all sides and he feels like he's losing himself. Images dance before his eyes: his brother younger and then older, smiling and then yelling at him in anger; different moments all melting into each other and the blood - always the blood - coming back to haunt him; tiny droplets of dark crimson red shining under fluorescent lights in a deserted warehouse. He wants it to stop, wants the pain to abide but he doesn't know how to fight it.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Let it out." John's gentle voice reassures him somewhere above his head and he gives in to the pain.

o0o

When the conductor announces Halbertstadt, John reluctantly decides to wake Sherlock up. He wishes the ride would last longer so his friend could sleep a little more. God knows he needs it. The young man fell into an exhausted slumber after the tears finally dried out. He hasn't moved since, and neither has John.

"We're there," he tells his flatmate simply when the brunette fixes him with a questioning gaze.

"Okay." He moves away from the doctor and lifts the coat off of himself before shrugging it on.

They stand up to leave the compartment and the shorter man has his fingers on the handle when Sherlock reaches for him with his left hand, forcing him to turn over and face him.

"John, I-" he starts; then he falters off, unsure how to finish.

"It's okay, Sherlock." He looks up at his friend, glad to see that the unbearable pain is gone from the blue eyes. "It had to come out. Hopefully you're feeling a bit better now?"

Sherlock nods then, still a little unsure of himself, but he gives the blonde the beginning of a smile and the doctor nods back at him before going out of the door.

There's a man in his late thirties waiting on the platform. Although he does not carry a little sign with their names on it, it's still evident he is here for them. John spots him immediately. The telltales are all over him. It's in his quick brown eyes scanning all the passengers coming out; his apparently laid back attitude, but look more closely and you'll notice he's ready for fight or flight. Then, there's also the outline of a gun under his jacket. The imprint would be invisible to the untrained eye, but John was a soldier and he knows what a concealed gun looks like, he could draw the shape with his eyes closed. Lastly, there's the physique: short haircut, strong muscular built and a sort of swiftness - as sharp and deadly as a blade, if you were one for the poetics - that ebbs from him. _This man_, the army veteran recognises, _is a trained killer_.

Sherlock must have noticed too, because he walks straight to him. They don't give their names; they don't need to. As they approach him, the man turns on his heel and starts walking towards the exit with measured steps. Sherlock and John follow dutifully without a word. There's a black four-wheel-drive SUV waiting for them outside. The plates are German, but a torn out piece of Bassett's Liquorice Allsorts' plastic bag under the front seat betrays the driver's origins.

He drives efficiently through the city's morning traffic and takes them to the back lot of what is apparently some logging company. He parks on the side of a small concrete one-storey building and motions for his guests to follow him inside.

The flat, if one can call it that, is sparsely furnished. There's a kitchen and a bare living room (save for one plastic chair in a corner) on the ground floor, two bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor with only the minimum requirements.

"You can call me Tom," the stranger says. He closes the door after his guests have entered. There's no doubt the name is an alias.

"Pleasure," John replies with less warmth than he would normally use. He doesn't like the likes of this man; they're little more than hired-guns in his opinion.

"You have been briefed, I suppose." Sherlock dives in with his usual subtlety.

"Anthea forwarded me the file on your brother's kidnapping," he replies, waving for them to enter the small kitchen.

The detective chooses to stand near the dusty window and John sits down on one of the two chairs that accompany the little wooden table. _Tom_ stays on the threshold, leaning against the right jamb.

"We believe they're hiding him somewhere in the Harz mountain," Sherlock states.

"Good choice: miles of desolated woods with no one around. There are also old forgotten bunkers from the second world war era," their new ally informs them. "It won't be easy to find their lair."

"They are part of a terrorist group," John starts. "Schwarze whatever-"

"Schwarze Nadel." Sherlock fills in.

"Yeah, that. Ever heard of it?" the doctor questions.

"Can't say I have," the agent, spy, whatever replies. His mouth contorts bitterly. "But I'm not really in the anti-terrorist business."

"And what exactly is your business?"

"Human Resources Management." The sneer extends and Sherlock looks puzzled for a second. John wonders if maybe he's actually the only one in the room who can read _paramilitary-cold-blooded-killer_ on the man's forehead.

"But you must have contacts, Anthea wouldn't have sent you otherwise," the blogger questions, refocusing the line of inquiry on more pressing matters. Besides, he doesn't want Sherlock digging too much in their new _friend's_ line of work.

"I made a few calls earlier and I have a meeting with one of my contacts this afternoon." The detective arches an eyebrow at that and the agent adds, "He might know someone who knows someone."

Tom leaves them shortly afterwards to go meet with his contact. To say that their host is a secretive bastard would be quite the understatement. He flat-out refused to disclose any information on his source and it goes without saying that Holmes and Watson were not invited to the party.

It doesn't take a genius with detective abilities to understand that the man doesn't like having to help them. This new task is clearly interfering with whatever on-going mission he has and the only reason he's helping them is because he has been ordered to by Whitehall.

o0o

Tom comes back at dusk, looking even more morose than when he left. There are tiny speckles of blood on his right arm and a cut on his left eyebrow. He's clearly been in a fight and John doesn't let himself wonder if his opponent is still alive.

"I have a few leads." He opens the fridge and takes some pizza leftovers out. He gets a slice for himself, but doesn't offer the rest to his guests. "Goslar and Wernigerode.

"Two little towns near this place," he explains after a bite. "My contact gave me the address of a bar in Goslar where some thugs like to hang out. We might find your guys there." He takes another bite.

"He also heard of someone in Wernigerode who recently bought some illicit chemicals." He wolfs down the rest of the slice.

"We'll go tomorrow, but we need to split." Sherlock instructs. "We can't waste any more time."

"I don't like that," his flatmate objects right away. There is no way that he is letting Sherlock out of his sight and he doesn't trust their new acquaintance one bit; no chance he is going to let him work on his own.

"No choice, John."

"I can take the bar while you two go and question the chemist," Tom offers.

"No." Sherlock refuses in a stern voice. "I'll take the chemist, you two can go to the bar."

This sets John on high alert and his blood instantly goes cold, he sits up quickly.

"A word." He instructs the young man, taking the two steps that separates him from Sherlock. He grabs him strongly by one of the lapels of his coat and forcefully drags him outside of the small house without giving the detective much of a choice.

"Are you crazy?" he questions, once the door is closed behind them.

"We don't have a choice John." Sherlock re-arranges his coat, now that the doctor has finally let go of it.

"I don't trust this killer one bit."

"Me neither." Sherlock sighs. "Which is why one of us will stay with him."

"I'm not letting you go to that bar alone. We can all go together to the chemist and then we go to the bar. It's safer."

"It's too late for caution, John." Sherlock's temper is rising. He takes two steps to the side, turns his back to his flatmate and exhales deeply.

In between two rows of building, he can see a small part of the Harz forest in the distance. It looks like a looming dark presence under the dying sun. He thinks of his older brother and his anger and furry withers away. He swallows thickly before facing his friend again.

"We can't waste anymore time, John," he says, in a softer voice. "Mycroft doesn't have much of it left."

"Sherlock."

"You know-" the younger man interrupts him and takes a step closer. "You know what they're doing to him."

In a rare moment of display, Sherlock lets on some of his worry and fear cross over his face and his voice takes a sadder edge. "They're torturing him as we speak, John. I... I can't let that happen."

The former soldier can feel his resolve wavering. "No," he says, tightly, but his heart feels like saying 'yes'.

"He's my brother, John. I have to save him, please."

The good doctor found out a long time ago that he can never say 'no' to Sherlock, certainly not when he says please and looks at him like someone just kicked his puppy. He sighs and against his better judgment, he gives in.

TBC.


	8. Chapter 7

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 7

_Day... three?_ Mycroft wonders, as the narcotics finally release their hold on his thoughts. His brilliant mind seems garbled; it feels like the cogs of his brain turn through thick glue.

He blinks, as he takes in the unfamiliar room. Concrete walls, concrete door, he notices immediately; _bunker_, he deduces after a few seconds. The room is completely bare. There is no handle on the door and the only piece of equipment is a large copper pipe near the ceiling; it crosses through the length of the room.

He slowly raises his head, the immediate spikes of pain that shoot through his body from his neck momentarily blind him. When his vision returns, he sees that his hands are shackled above his head. Both of his wrists are encased into unbreakable, thick, iron manacles which are strongly bolted to the wall. There is no escaping them. _How barbaric_, he thinks.

Mycroft lowers his head again, as he continues the self-inspection. He notices he's been stripped of his waistcoat and his bloodied shirt. He shivers at the sight of his bare chest, more out of habit than because of the cold. The air is dense, in the small room, and it makes the atmosphere rather stuffy. As he takes notice of the numerous bruises on his torso, he realises from their colour that today is actually _day four_, not three.

Whatever narcotics they had dosed him with — to keep him unconscious during the journey from the warehouse to... _here_ — were some heavy stuff. Either that or it was a really long journey. He sighs as he realises he may not even be in Germany anymore. If Kassar's men put him on a plane, he could be on the other side of the planet already. This, he knows, would make finding him much more complicated.

"Not good," Mycroft lets out, through split lips.

He isn't sure how much longer he can hold on. He needs medicine and nourishment, but he knows he won't get either. Interrogation and torture is all that he will receive. He knows the confines of his mind won't be able to shelter him for much longer. Kassar is after a list of operatives and Mycroft knows that, if he gives it up, dozens of agents will be killed. Worse than that: these men will in turn be tortured for information, before their executions, and even more lives will be destroyed.

Mycroft's stomach grumbles loudly and he tries his best not to think of how hungry he is. 'Eating is boring', the echo of his brother's voice resounds in the empty room and he lets a small smile pass his lips. _Quite right, dear brother,_ he thinks fondly. If Sherlock can go on for days with only nicotine patches and caffeine; there's no reason he shouldn't be able to do the same.

The door opens then and it puts an end to his inner musing. His insides coil instantly, as he recognizes the brute that enters. He loses all appetite immediately.

"Hallo, mein Lieber," the man greets him, in a thick German accent he has come to hate. "Ich hoffe, Du hast mich vermisst?" he questions with a dark sneer.

"Not really," Mycroft replies, before remembering that he previously decided not to talk to him.

"Vielleicht möchtest Du ja jetzt mit mir reden?" Peter asks for the umpteenth time, and the British man emphatically shuts his mouth in response. Then he closes his eyes, as he digs deep within his memories.

Music slowly drifts to his ears; the theme from 'Somewhere in Time', a lovely piece. It's a violin and piano duet he hasn't heard in years.

He opens his eyes to the Holmes Manor's reception room. His mother is here, just as magnificent as he remembers her. She sits in a chair, looks proudly at her sons with misty blue eyes. The two boys are playing for her. Sherlock stands on her left with his violin, while a younger version of himself sits on the bench, behind the piano. His hands fly deftly over the keys. The 80's film is one of Mummy Holmes' favourites, and that is why the boys decided to learn the theme song for her birthday.

Sherlock has just turned eleven and he looks more like their mother every day; dark hair and mad curls surround porcelain white skin. He has grown taller recently and he is, quite literally, a little lightning bolt. He does everything in haste; it's as if the world itself isn't turning quite fast enough for his liking. Expect when it comes to music; the violin brings forth rare moments, when the boy slows down and takes on the appropriate speed. His bow flies skilfully and languidly on the strings, held by a delicate and graceful hand.

Mycroft is eighteen, almost a man already. He has lost most of what his mother endearingly called his 'baby fat' and he is as tall as his father now and just as ginger. When he's not in his university's uniform, he wears a suit with a tie. He has developed the strange habit of always carrying an umbrella with him; he leans on it at times, like an old man would on a cane. It's never because he is tired; it's just that he thinks it looks good with the suit. His career is set and he knows that, where he is going, _appearances_ are an important factor.

Mycroft only came home from Uni for the weekend. He normally never comes back to the Manor for anything less than summer or winter holidays, but their mother's birthday seemed like a good reason for a quick trip home. And, to be perfectly honest, he also missed his little brother. It has been a strange year for them. They had been close for over ten years until suddenly hundreds of miles separated them. It threw their friendship a little off course.

But as they play — both perfectly in sync with each other — Mycroft realises everything is alright and there was no reason to worry. The bond that exists between them is not that easy to sever and it will take more than distance to tear them apart. He looks up from the ivory white keys for an instant and searches for his brother's gaze. Their eyes meet — that same love and happiness dancing in each pair of blues — and they smile at each other, as they keep playing.

Mycroft's gaze suddenly blurs and the vision merges once again, walls undulating like a landscape's reflection on a glassy lake. The brightly lit room disappears, to be replaced by a dark living room. There's a bare mattress on the floor and a clutter of papers around it. The single lamp that bathes the place in a soft yellow glow has a broken shade. The wallpapers are stained and peeling, and there's a damp patch in a corner that looks like mold.

Sherlock still plays the violin, but the melody is a lot darker, sinister. The tempo is off, Mycroft ears immediately. Every time his sibling misses a note, the eldest cringes inwardly. Sherlock doesn't even seem to notice his mistakes and that's perhaps the saddest part of it all.

The younger Holmes is twenty-two now and if it wasn't for his older brother's _meddling_, he would be living off the streets and he probably wouldn't even have a violin to play anymore. Yes, Sherlock would have sold it long ago — along with everything else — for a little bit more of that white powder he has grown so fond of.

Mycroft isn't even sure how it happened. How could everything grow so wrong between them, so quickly? The song of their friendship ended a long time ago and the instruments of their love were torn apart beyond mending.

To see his little brother like this — an empty shell of the boy he used to be; a pale and insipid version of the man he could have become — it tears at Mycroft's heart like little else. It is his one and deepest regret, the only thing in his life he has failed at completely.

The music continues and it's so distorted now, Mycroft can barely recognise the melody anymore. An unwanted lone tear trails down his composed face and he quickly wipes it away.

"Goodbye," he calls out, over the music. He leaves a small grocery bag, filled with a week's worth of food, near the mattress. There's no response, not that he is expecting one. The drug addict is so lost inside his own world, he never even noticed his brother stopped by.

Mycroft silently sees himself out of the flat. He feels at an utter low, as he closes the door behind him. How long can this go on, he wonders.

He takes a few steps outside, starts trailing down the little narrow alleyway to get back to the main road when, suddenly, the air around him disappears. His vision swarms, and he has to press a hand to the thick brick wall on his left to steady himself. He gasps wildly, as he tries to take in a breath, but his airways are closed. He gobs at nothing — like a fish taken out of water — and the edges of the city blur even more. Spikes of pain shootout through his skull and his lungs start to burn. He falls to his knees, panic coursing in his veins. It feels like something is gripping at his neck, strangling him, killing him.

He tries to raise his hands up to see what has taken a hold of him, but he can't. His arms won't move. Like his vision, his thoughts are swirling. His hands are shackled above his head, but he cannot remember why.

He blinks, rapidly, tries to sharpen his vision and, suddenly, he finds himself in a cell. A man has his hands around his neck and he still doesn't understand why. Wasn't he with Sherlock, just a minute ago?

He gasps for air; desperately tries to catch what little breath he can, but nothing makes it through. Everything goes dark. He's dying, he knows, and the only thing he can hear is his brother's violin.

o0o

Sherlock sits on the window sill of the small — completely bare, save for a bed and a little round table with no chair — bedroom he and John have been given for the night. He quietly gazes outside at the dark, looming shadow of the mountain that faces him in the distance. John rests peacefully behind him on the bed. Sherlock momentarily envies the other man's ability to fall asleep whenever he wants to, no matter where he is or what time it is. 'The first thing you learn as a soldier,' John explained to him once. 'is to get some rest whenever you can.'

The detective stays awake all night, unable to sleep. His thoughts run around in his head, chasing after each other. Such moments of calm, when he has nothing to do but wait, are the worst for him. _Thinking_ is the only thing left, but he doesn't like where some of his thoughts lead him. His older brother takes over much of his internal hard-drive, and it leaves him feeling more tired and frustrated then before.

It's getting harder for him to separate the two conflicting parts of himself, he realizes. There's the prevailing detective — cold, analytical and _efficient _— side of him; and then there's the more human — feeling, caring and _hurting_ — side, which he so rarely allows to take over.

Normally, it's easy to control himself. He puts a lid on everything emotional and focuses the entirety of his mind on the job at hand and thus, easily attains full efficiency. He learned how to be a sociopath, a long time ago, and it served him well. But this case; it is tearing at his resolve. The worry and the fear slowly consume him from the inside, and it's getting harder and harder to focus solely on the facts.

With Saturday morning's first light, Sherlock and John go their separate ways. The goodbyes are short and awkward; a soft pat on the shoulder; a quickly whispered 'Be careful.'

The detective takes a cab to Wernigerode and he stops a few houses away from the address Tom sent him to.

The man he is looking for, Amar Zenkreft, is an engineer. He was born in Teheran, thirty-two years ago, and he has been living in Germany, for the past eight years. Until recently, there was no reason to suspect him of anything; he lived a perfectly normal life, paid his taxes on time. The reason why he suddenly appeared on their radar, however, is a large purchase of illicit chemicals on the black market. Nitric acid and hexamine; your basic ingredients to make RDX, one of the world's most powerful explosive.

The engineer lives in a small house, at the end of a residential road, at the foot of the Harz forest. Sherlock stalks closer, in the pale morning light, careful to remain hidden by the neighbours' hedge. He peers at the house with curiosity; there's no light and no sign of anyone inside.

He creeps closer swiftly. He takes some quick steps to the side of the house and squats down below a window. Slowly, cautiously, Sherlock raises himself to peer through the glass at a darkened living room. He doesn't see anything out of the ordinary: a couch, a TV, some magazines on the coffee table that he is too far away to make out. He quickly jogs to the back of the house and peers through another window. His gaze finds the kitchen this time: dirty dishes in the sink, unopened mail tossed on the side of the table. His eyes roam over the room and find a pair of boots in a corner. They are caked in mud and pine needles. _The forest_. Zenkreft recently went to the Harz, the detective deduces, and he feels like he's on the right trail.

Sherlock continues to look, raises himself a little bit higher to have a better view. There's a rack of kitchen knives on the countertop, a postcard from Africa on the fridge. He cranes his neck and sees a corridor with a small round table. There's a phone on it, a notepad and a pencil. The last message written on the pad could be meaningless: the shopping list, an appointment to the doctor; but it could also be the detective's next clue to finding his brother. It could be a phone number or a location; Sherlock doesn't hesitate any longer.

He quickly gets his lock-picking set out of his pocket and starts to work on the window latch. It's not as easy as a front door, but a metallic nail-file and a corkscrew get the job done in less than two minutes. He opens the window, soundlessly, and heaves himself inside.

He crosses through the kitchen in cat steps, with all his senses in high alert. Once in the corridor, he bends down next to the table and yanks the notepad. He presses it against the wall, grabs a nearby pencil and quickly sketches over the page lightly. It reveals the imprints left by the last message written down. Sherlock grins, it's an old trick, but it works every time.

The detective discovers a phone number; it's a German mobile. Smiling victoriously, he quickly tears the page away and stuffs it in his coat pocket, before he places the notepad and the pencil back on the little table. He should go, he knows; he's overstayed his welcome already. But curiosity gets the better of him, and he marches forward on the tip of his toes.

The corridor takes him to the living room, where he rapidly moves to the coffee table to inspect the magazines. Some are in German, some in Arabic. He gazes right and sees the front door and a coat rack. He's tempted to go sift through Zenkreft's coats and jackets' pockets. It's madness; the engineer is probably sleeping above and he could come down any minute now. But Sherlock can't make himself leave; not before he has a solid lead to find his brother. The voice of reason (which sounds a lot like John Watson) screams at him to go back to the kitchen and leave at once. It points out to him that he's unnecessarily putting his life in danger, but the worried little brother in him quickly shuts it off and he stalks forward.

In the two jackets, he finds several receipts and he commits each shop name to memory. Then Sherlock moves to the coats, turns his back to the living room for better access, and digs deep within the first hole. His fingers curl around a set of keys that he quickly takes out. A BMW car key, what he guesses to be the front door's key, and a third shaped like an office's entrance's key. There's a last one which leaves the detective puzzled; it's a long, ancient key made of pure iron.

He quickly pulls up, in his head, different types of latches. He tries to figure out which kind of lock might be opened by this key, when a creak in the floorboard makes him turn to look behind his shoulder. Surprise only registers on his face for an instant, before sharp pain explodes within his skull. Sherlock tries to hold onto consciousness for as long as he can, but darkness overcomes him easily. He falls limply to the floor.

TBC.

* * *

_Note: If you're curious about the song the boys play in this chapter, there's a beautiful piano/violin cover of "Somewhere in Time" on YouTube.  
____The ti_tle of the video is **Somewhere in Time (Piano & Violin Duet)** (or you can search by video number **HJEczxSp9DA**)


	9. Chapter 8

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 8

Pain... _pain_. It's the only thought that Mycroft can focus on right now. His breathing is erratic, his eyes are tightly shut. Pain; it's the only thing he is aware of.

It takes a while to regain enough control to think past the ache and get his eyes to open. His lungs burn, his throat is one fire, and the throbbing in his arms is mind-numbing. It takes two failed attempts, before he manages to align the soles of his feet with the floor. His legs feel numb and he barely has the strength to stand, but he knows he has to; it's the only way to alleviate some of the strain on his abused arms. As he looks up, he sees the iron restraints have cut deep in the flesh of his wrists. They drew blood, whilst he was passed out and red slowly trailed down the length of his pale arms.

His heartbeat picks up, as he suddenly remembers what happened to him, before he lost consciousness. The pain, once again, was too much for his mind. It managed to find him where he was hiding, first exchanging one of his fondest memories for one of his bleakest, and then bringing him back to reality altogether. Mycroft minutely marvels at the fact that he is still alive. He really thought that was it, that the breath within his lungs had been his last. _Not before I talk,_ he realises, appalled.

He coughs, and his entire body shudders at the induced ripples that course through him. He isn't sure if he will be able to go for another round. He doesn't want to talk, he _really_ doesn't, but the pain... the pain. He cannot take any more of the pain.

_Sherlock, think of Sherlock,_ he instructs himself, as the concrete door slowly pushes open.

His body instinctively recoils from the man entering. The movement tears at his wrists, it hurts, but he cannot fight it. His body inches away from the torturer at its own volition. The burly man sneers in delight at the reaction.

_Sherlock, remember Sherlock,_ Mycroft instructs himself again, as his gaze blurs. His body shudders with tremors of fear that he cannot control. Gathering all of the energy he can muster, he digs deep within himself. He searches for a memory, any memory that can take him away from here.

o0o

The bar is a bust. Tom slips a few Euros to the owner and this earns him scant details about the clientele. Sure some of them belong behind bars, but they are not the ones they are fishing for. A bunch of hunters that likes to go butcher deers and boars outside of the hunting season or a gang of local thieves are hardly of any interest to them. They linger a little to ask a few questions, about jihadists and the Schwarze Nadel group, but no one has heard of them.

"I hope Sherlock was luckier," John lets out, as he pushes open the entrance door to exit the bar.

They start walking to the SUV, parked a little further down the road.

"He's a bit special Sherlock, isn't he?" Tom says.

John raises an eyebrow at him in answer, but it looks more like a frown of disproval. He doesn't like it, when people talk badly of his friend. He doesn't care if their new chaperon is sent by Anthea, or the Queen herself, to help them. He is determined not to let him insult the consulting detective.

"Relax, I didn't mean it in a bad way." The agent understands John's unspoken warning quite clearly. "It's just… he makes me think of his brother."

"You know Mycroft?" The surprise is evident in the doctor's voice. He had no idea the two knew each other.

"A little. We worked together on—" he seems to hesitate on the right word "—a _job,_ a long time ago."

"Let me guess: a mission that never happened, in a country in which you've never set foot?"

"I cannot confirm nor deny," is the patented reply. "Although, I'll say: Holmes was quite the agent back then. Smartest man I've met and a perfect memory." The description seems to be quite fitting, John thinks.

"But he had a wicked sense of humour," Tom finishes and the blogger raises both eyebrows, in surprise.

"Mycroft, humour?" For John, those two words don't belong in the same sentence.

"Yeah. I know many call him the 'ice-man' now, but trust me, he had his moments back then." The spy lets a faint smile tug at the corner of his lips, before he seems to catch himself and his face grows cold again.

John smiles earnestly at that, feeling happy to have been offered this little bit of insight into the elder Holmes. He never really managed to picture Mycroft any differently than from the man he is today. It is good to learn that there is more to him that the cold and apparently uncaring exterior. He thinks he should try, one day, to ask Sherlock what his older brother was like when they were little. Surely there are some interesting stories waiting to be told.

As he nears the car, the doctor can see through a perpendicular street the rocks and trees of the Harz which looms above them, a few miles away. That damn mountain range seems to be everywhere he looks. It is like a constant reminder of why he is here. He knows Mycroft is hidden there, somewhere, and worry tugs at his heart. He cannot imagine what the uncertainty must feel like to Sherlock.

If he were asked, a while ago, how the detective would react to the death of his brother, his answer might have been 'Oh Sherlock, he will be fine. Just give him a minute or two.'

But now, he knows he couldn't have been more wrong. There is no denying anymore the strong bond that exists between the two brothers, no matter what appearances might try to convey. There is love between them, even if the Holmes's themselves pretend to be incapable of having such feelings for anyone. John knows if the worst were to happen, a little part of Sherlock would die along with his sibling. The young man would never be capable to forgive himself for not being able to find him in time.

As he opens the car door to get inside, John casts one last look at the dew-covered trees that glisten in the morning light. He gazes at the mountain and the blinking emitter at the top, and slides into his seat even as he takes his phone out of his pocket. He dials Sherlock's familiar number and waits for him to answer. When he doesn't pick up, it goes to voicemail.

o0o

When he comes back to consciousness, Sherlock is at the back of a van with his wrists bound together and the barrel of a gun pointed squarely at him.

_Not good_, he thinks, as he raises himself to a sitting position, with difficulty. There's a metallic taste in his mouth and he realises he must have bitten on his tongue at some point.

There's no window and he has no idea where he is or where they are going, but the inclination tells him his abductors are driving upwards. The low speed and the numerous bumps indicate an uneven road, most likely a mountain path. His first guess is the Harz mountain range. As for their destination, well… he's pretty certain he will soon be reunited with his brother.

_Not so bad then_, he thinks, _mission half-accomplished_. Now they will only have to wait for John to come and rescue them. He groans, feeling absolutely certain that he will be subjected to a terse litany of 'I told you so' from his flatmate whenever their reunion happens.

The van shudders to a stop and someone opens the rear door. Sherlock obediently steps outside and follows the instructions of his abductors. He doesn't try to escape. It would be pointless with his hands tied and two guns aimed at him, besides he needs to locate his brother first. So, instead, he takes in as much of his surroundings as he can, commits everything with precision to memory. Hatch in the ground, concrete stairs — twenty-two steps — corridor, left turn, kitchen on the side, right turn, corridor, old military plaque on the wall — they're in an old WWII bunker then, he deduces — corridor, concrete door, Mycroft. His mind comes to a halt then, he freezes in his step. _Mycroft!_ Mycroft is here.

Someone roughly pushes him inside and he stumbles over his own feet. The plastic zip-tie is cut off, to be replaced by metallic restraints. Men force him to raise his hands and cuff him over the water pipe. The detective lets them, without paying attention. He cannot tear his eyes away from his brother; his bruised over, badly beaten, currently passed out older brother. Sherlock feels roaring rage stir up inside him.

It takes him a while to realise someone is talking to him. One of the men who tied him up is addressing him; he makes an effort to listen. His abductors are going back to town, but apparently a guy named Peter is going to come and 'have some fun' with the both of them in a little while.

Sherlock calls out for his brother, as soon as the heavy door is closed and they are left alone. There's no response.

He would think his brother dead, without the small wheezing sounds that pass his lips at regular intervals. Sherlock is standing near the entrance and he quickly moves forward. He slides the metallic cuffs along the pipe, until he is next to his sibling who is tied up to the wall facing the door.

"Mycroft!" He tries to call louder this time. There is still no response and he lets out a sigh.

His brother doesn't look better from up close. There are too many bruises to count, their colour varying depending on when they have been inflicted. There are several cuts on his chest and on his face too. Sherlock's eyes move up and notice the deep cuts made by the shackles in his sibling's wrists, but what really has his stomach lurching is the deep purplish marks around his brother's neck. He can see the imprints left by thick fingers, where they pressed hard against the freckled skin. He has to take in a deep breath, to fight back the urge to throw up at the sight.

Sherlock tugs uselessly at his restraints, wishes he could move nearer. He feels a primal need to get closer to his brother, to help him, to protect him. He groans in despair and forces himself to stop struggling, knowing full well that he is hurting himself uselessly.

"It's going to be okay," he says then. It's an idle promise, he knows; just like John's. But he cannot stop himself from saying it. "I'm going to get you out of this, Mycroft."

o0o

_Day...?_

He doesn't know anymore. He has lost count. He's lost count of the days and the number of times he has passed out. He doesn't want to be here anymore, he doesn't even want to open his eyes. He isn't sure he has the strength for it anyway.

"Mycroft?" A familiar, deep voice drifts to his ears and he smiles despite the weariness. _Sherlock_. It's good, he thinks, remembering him alleviates the pain. Mummy's cakes and the little boy with the pirate hat; that's what he wants to think about, those are good memories to die to.

"Mye, look at me." His brother's tone is commanding. But that's not all, there's something more — fear, worry — and that has him obeying, albeit the pain.

He blinks his eyes open, slowly, and the blurry silhouette in front of him soon sharpens to that of his sibling.

"Sherlock?" he croaks out, surprised.

"Hello." The younger man seems relieved.

It takes a few minutes for Mycroft to process what he sees and to realise that his brother is here, for real. This is the present-day Belstaff-coat-and-blue-scarf consulting detective, not an earlier memory.

"Sherlock?" he questions again, because he still isn't entirely sure if his mind is playing tricks on him.

"Of course, who else could be bothered to come and rescue _you_?" The smile behind the jab is genuine.

_Not a dream then,_ Mycroft realises, slowly, before he takes notice of the handcuffs above the wild mass of dark curls. _More like a nightmare,_ he thinks, as his stomach lurches.

"What—" he wheezes out, with difficulty "—the hell, Sherlock?"

"Language, brother-dear," his sibling chastises him, and all Mycroft can do is glare back. A cough prevents him from replying.

"I'm here to save you," the detective informs him.

"Another half-assed plan gone wrong, I see." The eldest crocks the words out, when he has enough breath for it. "Really, you shouldn't have bothered."

"I'll attribute your lack of gratitude to the concussion," Sherlock replies, with a pout of his lips. "Really, the next time this happens: don't expect me to even lift a finger."

If he had the strength for it, the wounded man would laugh at the childishness of his little brother's reaction. The banter is so familiar, Mycroft feels better already. The words and Sherlock's presence are like a balm of warmth that slowly envelops and soothes him. It reminds him of familiar grounds and normality, and gives him a momentary sense of safety. Except, it's all just a mirage. They're not safe: they are miles away from safe. They are prisoners, in a cell, _somewhere_, and the torture is soon going to start again. Alarm bells suddenly ring, loudly, inside his brain as he finally puts two and two together.

"Idiot!" Mycroft spats. "You should never have come here."

Sherlock looks back to him at the dark tone, with an arched eyebrow. Sure his plan backfired a bit, but there is no need to be so reproachful.

"I know this rescue isn't exactly going well, but you could at least pretend to be happy to see me," he retaliates. "I think that's what normal people do."

"_Happy_?" Mycroft echoes bitterly. "Are you really this stupid, Sherlock?"

His little brother looks away, clearly offended by the comment. He schools his features in total blankness. The eldest minutely feels bad about it, but then he remembers what's coming, and he thinks a bit of bruised ego will soon be the least of their worries.

"Why do you think you're still alive?" Mycroft's asks with renewed strengths; anger and fear fuels him. "They have been torturing me unsuccessfully, for days. Why do you think they brought you here?" He all but spells it out, for his little brother to understand. Unknowingly, their captors managed to get their hands on the one and only thing that can make the government man talk.

"To use me as leverage." Sherlock looks down, as understanding dawns on him.

_Not good,_ he thinks. A few other things pop up in his mind then. They strike through his brain, in quick flashes of light. He thinks of the upcoming torture session he is going to be subjected to; he thinks of the choice his brother will be faced with; he thinks of the experiments he hasn't had time to finish at Baker Street, and the two cold cases that are still waiting for him; and lastly, he thinks he doesn't mind. It's a strange thought that one, it surprises him.

He should mind, he thinks, he should mind a lot. He slows his brain to a stop, and focuses all of his attention onto this new realisation. The strange and recently awoken protective streak in him still roars deep within. It is stronger than ever and Sherlock realises, he doesn't mind if they torture him. No, he really doesn't, as long as they leave Mycroft alone.

"It's okay," the youngest says, as the concrete door opens. He looks up to meet his brother's gaze with resolve. "It's my turn."

TBC.


	10. Chapter 9

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 9.

Mycroft attempts to hide again. He tries to remember… something, anything, which could take him away from here and now. But his mind is absolutely, totally, utterly blank. He cannot escape; he cannot take his eyes away from his little brother.

Sherlock is speaking — probably colourfully insulting his torturer — but Mycroft cannot hear past the thrumming that echoes in his own ears. His blood boils inside him and he tears relentlessly at his tied hands, tries and fails to get closer to his brother.

"Leave him alone!" he hears himself scream, but the bulk German madman completely ignores him.

The torturer sneers viciously, delightfully elated, as he punches Sherlock again, hard, in the stomach. What little colour was left in his brother's face disappears. Mycroft can see the younger man bite his lower lip, to stop himself from screaming out loud.

Another punch comes, and another and the elder Holmes doesn't want to look anymore. He wants to close his eyes and forget, but he cannot bring himself to; not when Sherlock is looking directly at him. Their gazes meet and lock, and Mycroft is reminded of earlier times, when they used to play music together. What he sees in his brother's eyes is a tumult of feelings he hasn't seen in years; tentative and precarious emotions he thought he would never see again. For the first time, in nearly two decades, both brothers are in tune with each other again, and so Mycroft looks on. He fights, with every fibre of his body, to maintain the brotherly connection.

The pain continues to come, relentless. Physical pain is inflicted on Sherlock; emotional pain is inflicted on Mycroft. Neither men look away though; in a strange, sick way, they can't bring themselves to care. It doesn't reach them, for they share a moment that belongs only to them and they ravel in it. That is, until Sherlock's eyes close and the connection is lost. The young man passes out.

"Wirst Du jetzt endlich reden?" The interrogator turns to the eldest Holmes with cold, menacing eyes. Madness burns within the dark pupils.

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch!" Mycroft uncharacteristically half-spats, half-yells the words, with all the dark intensity he can muster. It sounds like the roar of a wounded beast. He promises himself, there and then, that once all of this is over, he will deal with this Neanderthal imbecile personally. The brute will pay, in full and with interests, for the pain he dared inflict to his brother.

The man looks at his watch then, and informs Mycroft that he has to go meet with Kassar. But he promises to come back quickly, for more… _fun_. He smiles madly at that, and looks over at the passed-out detective whose sweat-drenched bangs fall limply over his bruised face. The look is enough to make Mycroft want to throw up.

The fight abandons the government employee, as soon as, the door closes and he's left alone with Sherlock. All the anger and the adrenaline that, so far, served to fuel him ebb out. He feels weak and sick, and he lets out a weary breath. It comes out, almost as a sob, and he closes his eyes shut tightly, as he lets his head hang. A long, unwanted, wet whimper passes his lips.

Mycroft tries to review the situation, from every possible angle, in a desperate search for a solution. He finds nothing. A head-splitting headache impedes his usually quick and reliable thought-process; his brain feels garbled and muddled. He gives up eventually.

Finally, he forces himself to lift his head again. He reopens his eyes, heavy eye-lids fluttering painfully, and looks at his brother. The younger man hangs limply from the handcuffs; they're the only thing keeping him upright. His head hangs on his chest, angled away from Mycroft. The eldest tries to move a little to his side, in order to get a better view of his brother's face, but what little range of motion he has is not enough.

"Sherlock?" he calls out, uselessly, in a strained voice. "Please, wake up."

As usual, the younger man doesn't obey him. Silence drags on, seconds tick into minutes and stretch into something more. With nothing else to do to pass the time, Mycroft keeps calling out his brother's name at intervals.

He has no idea how much time has passed, when finally, the younger man moans and slowly stirs to consciousness.

"Sherlock?" he calls out again, with more intensity. "Wake up!"

Another moan. His brother's limp body slowly straightens, as he finds his footing again. He flexes his hands, rolls his shoulders. It lessens the constant pain that shoots through his arms; they are finally allowed some reprieve, now that they are done supporting his entire weight. Eventually, Sherlock turns around, and Mycroft gets a good look at his face. He gazes straight into the familiar light blue-grey eyes; they've always spoken to him more eloquently than any word ever could.

"How are you feeling?" Mycroft asks, more to break the silence than to have an answer.

"Peachy," Sherlock replies, with a feeble and pale version of his usual smirk. "You?"

"I'm okay," he lies.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and then flick his gaze around the room.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft blurts out, after an instant. He immediately looks down at the admission; it's not what he meant to say. Sherlock and he don't apologize to each other; they never do, it's one of their rules. But his tongue spoke before his brain had time to catch up with the words.

"Don't be. It's alright."

_It's not, it's fucking not alright,_ Mycroft wants to say, but his brain is back on track. He remains silent.

"Do you know when he will be back?" Sherlock asks.

"He went to report to his boss, sometime ago." Mycroft sighs, sorry not to be able to be more specific. "We have maybe an hour or two."

"Fine. We'll be out of here, before he comes back then."

His brother sounds certain and, despite his wounds, Mycroft manages to arch a questioning eyebrow. "And what is your magical plan, Houdini?"

"Working on it." Sherlock cranes his neck up, to look at his restraints carefully.

After a few seconds of close inspection, his gaze moves to his sibling's shackles, and then he looks at the door. A hard-edged frown crinkles his brow. After a deep breath, his quicksilver eyes flicker back to his brother. He looks him up and down, and then turns the scrutiny on himself. The frown deepens.

Suddenly, Sherlock eyes completely lose their focus. Mycroft realizes that the young man just lost himself within his own head. _Gone to his mind palace_, he understands. It's a technique the elder Holmes knows well; he uses it too. His own filing system looks a lot like Parliament Square.

"Oh." Sherlock's lips stretch to a thin smile, a few minutes later, as he comes back to awareness.

The thugs took his lock-picking set, his phone and his wallet from him, but they forgot his wristwatch. _Count on the idiots_, Sherlock thinks fondly, _to always forget something_.

He quickly looks up and contorts his hands to untie the leather bracelet. Standing on the tip of his toes, he has just enough room to manoeuvre and grab his watch in his left hand. He holds it tightly, between his left thumb and index, and pulls on one side of the bracelet with his other hand. The position is killing him. Pain radiates throughout his chest and perspiration starts to form on his brow. He continues, nonetheless, pulls, as hard as he can, until the tiny metallic pin that holds the bracelet breaks free.

The young man lets go of the watch and it falls to the floor. He quickly rolls the pin between his fingers and forces it in the lock. The position makes it very difficult for him to work efficiently. The tips of his fingers are practically numb due to the lack of blood induced by the unusual posture. It takes three trials to insert the tiny metallic cylinder inside the key hole of his left cuff. He twists it, bends it, with as much precision as he can and, finally, the latch opens with a delightful 'click'.

Sherlock frees himself and lowers his hands. He feels pins and needles shoot in his arms, as blood rushes back through his veins. Without wasting time, he quickly moves to his sibling's side. He raises his hands again and works on his brother's restrains. The shackles' locks are different and present more of a challenge. The pin is almost too small to reach inside deep enough and activate the mechanism, but Sherlock finally succeeds. He opens both restrains and helps his brother down.

Mycroft collapses on him, as soon as he is released; his legs are too weak to support him anymore. The detective sits them both down and the eldest keeps his eyes tightly shut, his face is distorted with pain. The change of stance and the movements jarred many of his wounds and the return of feelings in his arms is a torture in its own. Sherlock lets him lean heavily on him, while he carefully rubs life back in his brother's abused limbs.

They remain like that for long minutes, until the pain-etched lines finally start to ease a little on the eldest face. Weak fingers numbly curl around a handful of Sherlock's coat and, as he takes notice, the younger man tightens his hold onto his sibling. He cradles him protectively against his chest. The cold and detached analytical part of him is completely gone; all that is left now is a worried little brother. Sherlock lowers his chin and lets it rest on the top of the ginger curls, as he fights unwanted tears that threaten to break free from his eyes.

They can't stay here, Sherlock knows. There is little time left, before their interrogator comes back. If they don't take this chance to escape, they might never have another one. With a deep breath, he forces himself to store worry and concern away, and focus instead on finding a way out. He tries to remember what he saw of the bunker, when they brought him in. Thick rows of concrete — probably built in the early twentieth century — a door that only opens from the outside. There is no way to move the door or break it, from the inside.

Mycroft shifts a little, against his chest, before he starts coughing. It shakes his entire frame and he moans in discomfort. His hand clenches and unclenches uselessly on his brother's coat.

"Easy, Mye," Sherlock soothes, as best as he can. "Deep breaths."

He slowly shrugs out of his coat, careful not to jar his older sibling too much with his movements, and drapes the warm and comfortable garment around his brother's broken body.

"Deep breaths," he advises again.

Mycroft nods feebly back and forces himself to calm down. He wheezes breaths, in and out, at a slower pace.

A sudden thought hits Sherlock then —_ the air _— where is the air coming from?

He quickly looks up, but he cannot see a ventilation shaft. Yet, the air has to come in from somewhere; otherwise they would both have suffocated a long time ago. Reluctantly, Sherlock lets go of his brother. He lowers him gently to the floor, and folds his scarf in three before placing it under his head. Then, he stands and moves to the centre of the room.

The detective turns on himself slowly. His eyes scan the entirety of the cell, but he cannot see anything. It's impossible, he knows; there has to be something. But all his eyes can see is thick, ugly, grey concrete everywhere.

Sherlock decides to switch tactics and moves to the entrance door. He rests both of his palms against the cold wall in front of him and starts to move to his right slowly, feeling the grainy surface under his skin. He slides his hands all over the plane, feeling for what his eyes cannot see.

He is almost done with the third wall, when the texture under his palms subtlety changes. He freezes on the spot and caresses the wall more intently. Sure enough, to the eye it looks like concrete, but it doesn't feel like it at all. There's a large patch that feels smoother and warmer.

Sherlock leans closer, eyes squinting in concentration. _Paper_. It's a sort of thick paper, painted over, and made to look like the rest of the room. But now, mere inches away from it, the detective can see that it's not entirely impermeable. There are tiny, minuscule holes in the surface that let air through. With a smile, he moves back a step and closes his right hand into a fist. He punches through the surface with strength; it breaks easily.

In less than a minute, Sherlock has torn open a two-feet-wide hole inside the wall. It gives on a small rectangular ventilation shaft. He lifts himself inside.

"Be right back," he calls out to his brother, as he starts moving forward.

He crawls further inside cautiously. It's very narrow, but his thin frame allows him to move forward, without too much difficulty. Three feet ahead, he finds a ninety degree right turn and he struggles with his long legs to make it. He continues to crawl forward in the dark, until he comes up to an air-vent. It's locked. He pushes at it with all his strength, until the old, rusty screws give up and break.

Sherlock's head peers out on a corridor, and the young man pushes forward until he comes stumbling out of the shaft, in a most undignified matter.

He quickly gets back on his feet — smoothes his rumpled clothes, in one swift motion — and listens carefully to see if his tumble has attracted some unwanted attention. Everything remains silent, and he quickly starts to walk along the corridor, looking for the door to his brother's cell.

Sherlock finds it, one right turn later. He forces the handle down and pushes the heavy door open. He finds Mycroft, curled up on himself, exactly where he has left him.

"Come on, Mye." He kneels down next to him. "We have to go."

The older man barely stirs at the sound of his voice. Sherlock forces his sibling's arms inside the elms of the coat and buttons it, before forcefully lifting him up. He knows, he's hurting him, but he doesn't have the time to be gentle.

Mycroft's eyes fly open at the jarring movements; he peers questioningly at the source of his discomfort, with pained-laced pupils.

"Sorry, but I promised you a rescue and this is it." Sherlock drapes his brother's right arm over his own shoulders and securely places his left arm around the elder's waist.

"Start walking!" the detective orders him, in a firm tone.

Mycroft obeys as best as he can, which isn't much.

o0o

"I know you're worried, but it's probably nothing," Tom says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the kitchen's counter top.

_Worried?_ Oh no, John is miles past worried. Something happened to Sherlock, he is certain of it. He tried to call him — _seven times_ — on their way back from Goslar, and the detective hasn't picked up once.

Normally, John wouldn't find the lack of answer alarming, but considering the possibility that he could have been phoning with information on Mycroft's whereabouts, there is no way that Sherlock would willingly ignore him. Something bad must have happened to him, John can deduce that much.

John's worry had turned into mild panic, when they returned to their hideout to find it empty, with no sign that Sherlock had ever gotten back. Two phone calls to Anthea later, and the doctor was informed that the detective's cell couldn't be located. By that point, the panic wasn't mild anymore.

"They've got him," John urges out, pacing the small kitchen. "I'm sure they've got to him."

"You don't know that, Watson," Tom counters, with a calm voice.

"Get me a gun, we're going to that chemist," he says, sternly and decidedly. He feels every bit the soldier he used to be.

TBC.


	11. Chapter 10

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 10

Once outside, Sherlock isn't really sure which direction to take. He looks up at the sun and realizes the rocky road the van took to come to the bunker is going west. Halberstadt, John and safety, are south of them and that should be the logical choice. But, he also knows, that south will be the first direction their kidnappers would think to look at. Reaffirming his hold on Mycroft, he starts walking north-east.

The bunker's entrance is in the centre of a tree-covered area and at the foot of a small hill. As they start to walk up the narrow path, the detective hopes they will have the time to make it to the top and get out of eyesight, before the terrorists make it back. If they succeed, then they would have a small chance at escaping them.

The brute, Peter, will probably be alone when he'll discover his prisoners are gone. His first logical reaction should be to call for backup, and this would buy the brothers almost another hour. Then, numerous men (at least five, maybe more, Sherlock theorizes) would scatter around to look for them.

They should be running, the detective knows. They should try to put as much distance between themselves and the threat as they can, but they walk at a snail's pace. Sherlock himself isn't capable of breaking into a full run, at the moment. He took a few bad punches to the ribs and, although none of them seem to be broken, the pain is very sharp. Every step tares at the wounds, and makes his breath short.

Mycroft on the other hand... Sherlock feels it's a small miracle that his brother still manages to stand on both feet at all. His sibling is as white as a sheet and, although the afternoon air is chilling, he is covered in thick beads of sweat. Sherlock knows their hike must be pure torture to him, and he silently admires his willingness to continue. A small, sarcastic part of him ventures that Mycroft must be trying to make up for all the times he was lazy in the past.

It takes the brothers almost half an hour to make it to the top of the hill. With one look behind his shoulder, Sherlock is relieved to discover that there is still no car in sight. They continue forward without a pause. The vegetation is thicker, in this part of the Harz. The trees are lower, their branches four or five feet above the ground only. Bushes and roots litter the soil. There's a path, mostly cleared, that snakes through the foliage, but Sherlock decides against it. He looks up at the sun again, and calculates an angle that will take them due east, through the trees. Walking through the wilderness should make them harder to track, than taking the obvious trail.

They are forced to stop, twenty minutes later, when Mycroft's foot catches in a root, for the third time in a row. The eldest almost topples them both to the floor.

"I… need… to… stop," Mycroft pants out, weekly.

Although he wishes they would continue, Sherlock helps him sit down, with his back against a tree.

"How are you feeling?" He crouches down in front of his older brother.

Mycroft manages to open his eyes to half-slits, to glare at him at the stupid question. He doesn't, however, waste any of his precious breath to reply.

"We need to keep moving, Mycroft. You know it isn't safe here."

"I can't." He shakes his head a little, breathing still erratic.

"You don't have a choice. You have to."

"There's a choice." Mycroft forces himself to slow his breathing enough, to be able to speak. "You… you can go on."

"No," Sherlock interrupts right away. His eyes shoot up to his sibling, irises dangerously darkening.

"Go get help… and come back later," his brother continues, as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"No!" Sherlock almost growls. He grabbs fistfuls of the coat on his brother's back, and hauls him up unceremoniously.

Mycroft lets out a cry at the jarring movement and, for a moment, Sherlock is the only thing keeping him upright. It takes a few seconds to get his footing back, and he leans back against the tree for support; his brother doesn't release his hold on his front. Their gazes meet, as the youngest draws closer to look him straight in the eye; there is unprecedented fury in the grey-blue orbs.

"Do not think for a second, that I would leave you behind, Mycroft." His voice is dark and low pitched and his eyes burn with certainty. "I will drag you, if I have to, but you are coming back to England, with me."

Mycroft would like to reply, but not words make it past the lump in his throat. The certainty and the determination he can read in his brother's eyes, does something strange to him. There's another emotion in Sherlock's eye, something long-forgotten that he thought he would never see again; it takes him a moment to recognize it. When he does, it awakens something, deep within him, that he hasn't felt in years; something warm and comforting. Mycroft forces himself to stand a little bit straighter and, still unable to speak, he nods at Sherlock.

It's good enough to calm his little brother, and he lets go of him. They retake their former position, with Sherlock taking most of his sibling's weight. Slowly, they resume walking, under the setting sun.

o0o

They are forced to stop, when it gets to dark to walk. Sherlock finds some bushes — which form a half-circle, at the foot of a large tree — and heads in that direction. He helps his brother sit down and then sits next to him, both with their backs against the large tree's foot. The bushes, he notices, effectively shield them well.

"We'll wait until the sun rises again and then we'll continue," Sherlock says, passing a wary palm over his brow. It comes away drenched in sweat. "A few more miles to the east and then maybe we can try to aim south, climb down and find a town."

His brother doesn't offer a reply. He leans heavily against the tree, eyes closed. He seems almost passed out.

The detective takes out the small water bottle he snatched from the bunker's kitchen, when they escaped. He uncaps it and brings it to his brother's lips. He lifts the bottle and Mycroft opens his mouth obediently. It's half empty, Sherlock notices, yet he hasn't had a drop of it himself.

"Thanks," the eldest murmurs, grateful.

"Try to get some sleep. You'll need your strength tomorrow."

Mycroft nods at that, then he turns his head towards him, and tired, faraway blue eyes finally open. It takes a few seconds to focus on the detective's face, in the dim light.

"Thanks," he says again. His voice is still breathless, but there's a strange intensity to the tone nonetheless. He looks at his brother, straight in the eye.

Sherlock reaches out to him then. The movement is unplanned; a strange impulsive gesture again. He passes an arm around his sibling's shoulders, and he tugs until his brother falls against his chest. There's very little resistance, and Mycroft soon has his head safely tucked in the crook of his brother's shoulder.

They have never been a hugging kind of family. When Sherlock was little, hugs only happened if he hurt himself or if he was very upset. Later, it was reserved for Birthdays and Christmases, and then hugs disappeared altogether. But in this moment, he knows, with clear certainty deep within himself, that they both need this very much. He cannot really understand why, there's no rational explanation behind the reasoning, but, for once, he doesn't try to fight the feelings and emotions that assault him. He lowers his chin and lets it rest on the top of his brother's head, as he did in the cell. Mycroft's right hand's fingers sneak their way around his left wrist.

"It's going to be okay," Sherlock whispers to him. It's that stupid promise again, but as he says the words, he finally understands why people utter it at times like these. It's not because they are certain things will be okay; it's just that the alternative is unfathomable.

Mycroft isn't long to fall asleep, his breathing evening out. Sherlock fights hard to resist the pull of Morpheus' call. One of them has to remain awake and be on the lookout for possible threats.

He thinks of John then, and wonders if it is always like that for him. The caring, the worrying; it's exhausting and so complicated. He knows John worries about him sometimes and now, he feels bad for imposing such pressuring emotions onto his friend.

The coldness of the night relentlessly bites at him, and Sherlock shivers. He's only wearing a dress shirt and his suit jacket, and the night winds seep through the layers easily. Oh, how much he longs for one of John's warm cup of tea, right now. He tightens his hold on his brother and takes comfort in his warmth. The exhaustion, both physical and mental, gets the better of him eventually and he falls asleep. He dreams of two little boys playing music together.

o0o

The chemist's house was empty, with no sign of his owner or of Sherlock. Clothes were missing in the wardrobe, and it was obvious the man had packed in a hurry, very recently. Probably after the consulting detective's visit, John surmised, after he'd kidnapped Sherlock.

As the night fell, they had no choice, but to get back to their hideout and plan their next move. The silent and tensed drive felt awful to John.

Once at the safe-house, John calls Anthea and begs her for help: satellite imagery; a bloody SAS commando; anything, _anything_ that could help them find Sherlock and Mycroft. The young woman sternly tells him that she already has a satellite over their heads. It would take her less than five minutes to have soldiers unofficially deployed in Germany. But, without a specific location, all of that is pointless. The satellite has nowhere to look, and she doesn't know where to send the troops. And it is up to John to find the damn location.

They did this once in Afghanistan, he remembers. With his team, they spent two weeks searching for two journalists, who got kidnapped in the field. With no idea where to look, they searched bunker after bunker, in the desert. They weren't fast enough to find the thirty-four years old woman. Sophie, her name was, John still remembers. He hasn't forgotten her face either, nor the state of her, when they finally found her — although he wishes he could. The second journalist was still alive and he returned home eventually, once he was stable enough to survive the flight. His injuries were numerous and the doctor knew, he would never be the same man again.

As he looks out of the window at the vast forest that lies ahead, John wishes, with all his heart, for a different ending this time.

"We're going there," he calls out over his shoulder, to the British agent sitting at the kitchen table. "First light tomorrow morning, we're going there and we won't stop looking until we find them."

o0o

Sherlock wakes up with a start, and berates himself immediately for falling asleep in the first place. The sun bathes the forest around them in a soft yellow, and he estimates it must be between six-thirty and seven in the morning. They wasted precious time, and he quickly rouses his brother up. Mycroft moans in protest and shies minutely closer to his sibling. He burrows himself deeper in Sherlock's arms, before he finally wakes up and pulls himself away. He looks somewhat appalled at the rare display of weakness.

"Feeling better?" the detective asks. He thinks that if his brother has the strength to feel self-conscious; then he must be, at least, a little better.

"Much," Mycroft replies, in a voice clearer than last night's. "Just aching all over."

The youngest springs to his feet, muscles protesting vividly and joints cracking loudly. He straightens his back, before looking down at his brother, with an expectant look.

Mycroft keeps the pretence up, another twenty seconds, before giving him a more honest expression and a regretful smile, "I'm going to need help getting up."

Sherlock obediently assists him, and they start to walk again. The eldest still needs help to keep upright, but they move a little bit faster today. Unfortunately, Mycroft's strengths wan rapidly; less than two hours later, their pace is greatly reduced again. Eventually, Mycroft is in the same state he was, the day before. Sherlock takes most of his weight, while he pants heavily and stumbles along. He marches on, out of sheer will only.

At some point, one of Mycrof's foot catches into something, and he flails forward. Sherlock, surprised, doesn't react quite fast enough. His tired, battered body doesn't have the strength to compensate the sudden loss of equilibrium, and both men topple to the ground. The detective falls with a grunt, but Mycroft lets out a sharp cry of pain. His eyes immediately close shut tightly. Sherlock is next to him, within seconds; he kneels in the cold dirt. He uses both hands to help his brother back up — to a half-lying, half-sitting position — against his own knee.

"Mye, are you alright?"

He gets an assertive moan, but it is evident his brother is fighting hard against the pain.

"Deep breaths." Sherlock looks up, to search for the offending root, which attacked them so viciously. If looks could kill, it would disintegrate instantly.

What Sherlock finds, however, is no vegetal death-trap, but a metallic one. His eyes come up to a small u-shaped iron item, protruding from the ground. Taking care not to hurt his brother, he quickly shuffles a little to his right to get closer. As he pushes dead leaves and branches away, it reveals a small hatch. He realizes at once, his sibling's foot caught up in the handle.

He sets Mycroft aside and stands to lift the hatch open. It comes off easily — _used recently, then_, he deduces — and he peers inside, with curiosity. It's a simple hole in the ground; consolidated with large three-feet-long wooden beams on the sides, to keep it from collapsing.

Sherlock finds blankets in a corner, empty bottles and a balled up packet of fags. It's a hunter's den, he understands, and for a moment, he is torn. This could be a very good place for them to hide, and it is evident that Mycroft cannot continue to walk for much longer. But if they decide to stay here, both men would eventually die of thirst and hunger. No rescue would ever be able to find them here.

It's a dilemma, and Sherlock is good at solving such puzzles. He doesn't like either solution, so he makes up a third one.

"Come on Mycroft." He grabs his brother under his arm pits, and drags him to the hatch.

Cautiously, he lowers Mycroft inside and installs him, as comfortably as he possibly can, before tossing a blanket over him. Then he takes the rest of the water they have, swallows a gulp, and places the bottle within his sibling's reach.

"You're leaving me, aren't you?" Mycroft's voice doesn't sound reproachful. If anything it sounds relieved.

"I need to find help, but I'll come back. You'll be safe here and you can rest."

Mycroft nods. He feels like he should say something, before his brother departs. He knows the odds aren't good, and there's a huge probability this won't play out as they want. This is maybe the last time he sees his brother; he has to say something, except he really doesn't know where to begin.

"Sherlock." He reaches out shaking fingers, and grabs his brother's wrist to halt him. He is reminded, at once, of the phone call he made, a few days ago. He didn't know what to say then, either. He wasn't able to push the right thoughts through.

"Sherlock, I…" His words die on his lips, as thoughts elude him. He hates himself for it.

Why can they never say what they mean? It has always been like that, between him and Sherlock, ever since they were old enough to learn that things can be done two ways: the easy way or the hard way. It has always been option number two with them.

Mycroft wants to say _I love you,_ and _I'm sorry,_ and _I forgive you,_ but Holmes's don't do that. It's a law they made for themselves along the way: sentiments and emotions are weaknesses; caring is not an advantage.

Sherlock seems to understand anyway, and he shuffles a little closer to his sibling.

"I know," he whispers softly, above his brother's head. Then he places a quick close-mouthed kiss on the other's brow, just beneath the first ginger curls.

"I'll come back," he promises and Mycroft regretfully lets him go.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 11

**TWO WORDS**

CHAPTER 11

Sunday morning, John looks more like the soldier he used to be than he ever has, since he came back from Afghanistan.

With military boots, black cargo pants and a dark brown duffle jacket, he really looks the part. But more importantly, it's the attitude that betrays the man's aptitudes. It's in the way he holds himself, straight and alert. The way he walks through the trees and uneven terrain, with purpose and stealth. He is a soldier on a mission and the gun strapped to his thigh is the most evident clue of them all.

Tom walks next to him, dressed in similar clothes and he sports the same attitude.

They decided to start searching all the military bunkers listed, starting at the far south and moving north. The place is crawling with various military outposts; leftovers from the Second World War. The highest peak of the mountain range, the Brocken, has been occupied by US troops before being transferred to the Soviet occupation zone until it was finally reclaimed by the German military after the cold war ended. Buildings were been bombed and rebuilt and then bombed again; all that made it difficult to find an accurate listing.

John knows there is also a good possibility that the terrorists aren't using abandoned military buildings at all. They can be hiding in a cabin or some other hunter's den; but they have to start looking somewhere.

o0o

Sherlock runs. He dashes through trees and bushes, aims south as much as he can. He wishes he could stumble on some hikers or even a group of hunters or better yet park rangers, but he finds no one and so he continues running.

He's exhausted, parched and aching all over, but he pushes the ache and the pain away. He continues to run, because _failure is not an option_. He made a promise to his brother and he is going to keep it. He broke too many of those already; he isn't going to fail him this time.

He jogs down a little hill and the terrain gets more uneven. Reluctantly, he has to reduce his speed, if he doesn't want to risk falling down. He snakes through trees and bushes and eventually stumbles on a rocky trail. Puzzled, he stops for an instant to decide what to do. Following a path is dangerous; it will make him more of a target, make his movements more predictable. But at the same time, it will allow him to move more quickly. It's an impossible choice and there is no third option, this time. With all his senses in high alert, he starts running again. His feet hit the ground rapidly on the muddy trail beneath him.

He comes up to a sort of facility, eventually, and he slows down to a stop, a few feet away from it. He abandons the path and moves back inside the forest. He crouches down behind some rocks as he peeks at the station in front of him. There's a small concrete building and a lean emitter next to it. Sherlock knows there are several weather stations installed in the mountain range. The major one was built on the highest peak, but there are smaller ones — relay stations — spread on lower grounds. He surmises, he must have found one of those.

He narrows his eyes, but he can see no sign of recent activity. The station is probably entirely automated, with no one ever coming to it unless there is a problem. He moves forward and inches closer to the building. There's a large door with a latch and a keypad next to it. It takes a key and a code to enter, the young man realizes; he doesn't have either of those, nor does he have the tools necessary to break in either.

The emitter is a little further away and Sherlock quickly jogs to it. From its feet, the young man can see it was built close to the edge of the mountain. The cliff is abrupt and he can see quite the panorama unfolding beneath him. Halberstadt far ahead in the distance, smaller towns a little closer, including the one he was in when he got kidnapped.

He thinks of John again. His friend is down there, he knows. The good doctor is probably looking for him. If only he had a way to tell him where to look exactly, this could solve all of their problems.

o0o

Bunker number three is just as empty as bunker one and two and, John is getting more and more frustrated, with every passing second.

This is like Afghanistan all over again. That mission set the entire team on edge and every day was worse than the day before. Every time they entered a bunker it was with the hope that this was it, that they had finally found the right one. And every time it turned out to be another bust, their hope sagged down as they realized they weren't any closer to finding the journalists than they had been before.

The two British men holster back their guns and return to the car parked near what used to be a military transmission relay facility. Tom gets back behind the wheel and they drive away in muted silence. They follow the trail back to the main road and turn left to climb higher, for a few miles, before taking another smaller dirt road to their next target. The ride is bumpy and Tom has to drive slowly over the uneven terrain. Eventually, they are forced to park and continue on foot, because a large fallen tree blocks the path.

They walk for close to ten minutes, before finally arriving at the bunker indicated on their map. There's a German 'Danger – Stay away' sign planted, next to the building, that both men ignore. They quickly jump over the fence and draw their guns out. They circle the outer parts of the building rapidly and don't find any signs of recent activity. The entrance door is chained and the rusty lock clearly hasn't been opened in a long time.

"Another dead-end. Fuck!" John curses, as he holsters his gun.

He feels frustration roar its head up again and kicks at a nearby stone. He follows it with his eyes, as it flies away to the mountain edge, before toppling over. He walks to the spot where the little stone disappeared and looks at the countryside below for an instant. The breathtaking panorama holds very little interest to him. He quickly looks away and refocuses his gaze to his left, to the rest of the vast mountain range covered in nothingness. He can see the length of it clearly, from this vantage point. Miles and miles of rocks and stone; thousands of tree tops. The immensity of it weighs hard on him; they haven't even covered a tenth of the terrain yet. It will take them probably three or four days to search each military compound, and there is no telling they are even on the right track.

John lets his eyes rack over the sea of green that lies ahead, one last time, before turning on his heel. He walks back to where Tom is waiting for him. He takes five steps, before abruptly stopping and angling his head minutely to the side. His brow furrows so deeply that it looks like both of his eyebrows are one single ongoing line.

John quickly turns again and runs back to the spot where he was before. His eyes shoot up to search for the little thing which reignited hope in him. He waits and holds his breath. There it is again: three flashes, a pause, four flashes.

The blinking sequence repeats over and over again. Morse code: two letters burning themselves in his retina. Two letters that mean the world to him and that he will never tire of seeing: SH.

"It's him." John waves his hand at Tom, beckoning him closer. "It's him, look," he instructs, pointing at the emitter blinking in the distance.

"S-H." The spy is quick at reading the code.

"_Sherlock_ fucking _Holmes_." John smiles brightly. "Thank god for your natural tendency to always grandstand and show off."

"I think it's a weather station." Tom looks at the emitter through binoculars. "I can't see anyone, just a small building next to it."

"It's Sherlock, it has to be him. It's a clue to find them." The soldier beams. _Brilliant, detective, bloody brilliant,_ he thinks proudly.

"We have to get back to the car. It shouldn't be too hard to drive there, should take us an hour, maybe less."

o0o

There's no sign of either Holmes's when they finally make it to the station, but as he nears the emitter, John can see a panel has been torn open in its base and some of the wires inside have been tampered with. Sherlock was there.

He holsters his gun to look around; there has to be another clue for him to find. His friend was probably on the run, in need of help, and the emitter served as a lighthouse to lure them closer. Now it's time to pick up on the smaller breadcrumbs that would surely lead them to the young man. It will not be something too evident. If Sherlock managed to give his kidnapers the slip, they were probably in pursuit and he didn't want the wrong person finding him. The clues must have been designed solely for him to find; except John can't see anything.

The weather station is on the edge of the mountain, circled by the forest on every other side. There is only a small clearing around the concrete building, before trees and bushes reclaimed their ownership over the terrain.

John looks to the side and he sees it then: a line of rocks looking oddly like they have been placed here. They appear inconspicuous, but there is something about the line they form which seems too perfect to be wholly natural. There's a larger rock on the left and eight more or less smaller ones next to it. It looks… John has to do a double take, because quite frankly he can't believe his eyes but yes… it looks like the solar system.

_Bloody Sherlock Holmes_, he thinks, unable to stop a smile from breaking on his face. _Trust him to make a point, even as he is hiding from terrorists, in a forest in the middle of Germany_.

John quickly crouches down to turn over the stones. He finds a letter, drawn in mud, on each of them. Nine stones, nine letters: N.O.R.T.H.W.E.S.T.

The soldier doesn't need to be told twice. He quickly wipes the stones clean, before motioning for Tom to follow him, as he breaks in a quick run in the direction he has been given. He finds a small path heading up through the trees and decides to take it, as it goes in the right direction. They advance in a fast jog; guns drawn out and eyes open wide. They quickly scan the terrain in search for the next clue.

The next clue smiles at them, from a nearby tree, two miles up.

Tom turns to John with a frown. "Anyone could have drawn this."

A stylized representation of a smiling humanoid face is indeed a common occurrence in popular culture as of late, but Sherlock has to be the only flatmate in the world with the habit of drawing up smileys in the wall using bullet holes.

"Oh, it's him. Trust me." John looks at the small creature with a sly smile. It is carved in a tree, on the left side of the path.

"This way," John orders, leaving the trail and pushing through the dense vegetation.

They cannot run anymore and are forced to adopt a slow walk. They carefully make their way through the branches and lower plants. John finds a few footprints, here and there, that are Sherlock's size and he tries to follow them as best as he can.

o0o

Mycroft drifts, in and out of consciousness, at intervals. Alone in the cold and the dark, he feels unusually weak and powerless. He tugs the blanket closer around him and it does its job, fending off the biting cold. However it isn't enough to warm him up, not when the coldness and the dread seem to be coming from inside him and ebbing out.

He wonders at how his life has come to this. Dying in a foxhole in some desolated part of Germany isn't even on the list of potential death scenarios he envisioned. And yet, he has quite the imaginative brain.

He thinks of Sherlock again, and strongly hopes the younger man made it to town and to safety. This death isn't meant for him. His brother has to live on, he has to go back to London, to John and continue his life of deduction and crime solving. This job he created for himself, however unlikely, turned out to be the perfect fit for him. Gone are the drugs and the bad frequentations and, with John now looking after him, Mycroft knows his brother will be safe. He'll have a chance at finally being happy; John will see to that.

A bout of coughing erupts in him then, and the shooting pain in his torso puts a temporary halt to his thinking. He swallows down what little he has left of water and takes some deep breaths, until the pain is back to bearable levels. His earlier fall jarred strongly at his broken ribs and he fears it caused some internal bleeding. He's no medical expert, but he is certain that the perpetual haze he feels isn't a good sign.

He hasn't said anything to Sherlock, but he knows that without any real medical treatment, he won't make it through another night. _Sherlock_: ten year old pirate, twenty year old thief, thirty year old detective and the only person, apart from their mother, whom he loves. Yes _loves_. Even if he cannot bring himself to put it into words, he lets the L-word dance unbound inside his head. It's only the truth after all and on the eve of his death, it is hard time to finally face it.

The echo of cracking branches and crunching leaves bring him sharply back to reality. He listens intently as someone marches on the roof of his hiding spot. They found him. It's over. He holds his breath and his left hand tightens around the small water bottle — his only weapon in this hellhole — as the hatch is slowly pulled open.

His brother gracefully slips inside, before closing the hatch behind him.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft questions abruptly; there is no denying the surprise in his tone.

"Missed me?" his sibling retorts with mirth, before shuffling closer to him.

With the hatch closed, their hideout is pitch-black again and Mycroft's glare is lost on the younger man.

Sherlock pats his way towards his brother, careful not step on him. He finally settles for sitting next to him, with his back against the dirt wall. His long legs spread out in front of him, the tip of his toes touching the other side.

"How are you feeling?" The detective's voice is strained.

"Same," his brother lies and Sherlock squints in the darkness at the tone.

"Don't lie to me, Mye."

Mycroft can't say if it's the use of his old nickname or the concern in his brother's tone, but he uncharacteristically answer with the truth. "I... I can barely feel the pain anymore."

Both of them knows how _not good_ this truly is.

"John will find us," Sherlock assures him, with certainty as strong as steel in his voice. "I left him clues that will lead him here."

Mycroft has to admire the trust he has in his flatmate's abilities. He can only hope the former soldier turned blogger will find them in time. He doesn't say this out loud though. But, he cannot stop himself from leaning a little to the left. He sags against his brother's shoulder, in search for the comfort that he so desperately needs, but that he cannot bring himself to ask for.

Sherlock seems to get the message nonetheless; he quickly drapes his arm around his brother's shoulders again, and their position soon mirrors the one they were in last night. The detective rearranges the blanket around the both of them and lets out a deep breath. He feels oddly contemplative; something that doesn't happen to him very often.

There are things Sherlock wants to say. Apologies long overdue and some gratitude he should have expressed a long time ago, but he cannot bring himself to say the words. Mycroft knows this already, he thinks. He must do; he is as smart as him so he must know, right? A little voice in the back of his head (and really it does sound like John) advise him to speak up nonetheless and he hesitates. It's not how they do things, he notes, not in the Holmes family. Facts, data, plans, schemes, logic, rationality those are the things he has been taught and he has always been able to rely on each of them. Feelings and emotions have always had very little place in their world.

His sibling shifts uncomfortably against him and he throws all the family principles out of the mental window of his mind palace. He tightens his hold on his brother and willingly offers what little comfort he can. He isn't really sure if he is doing this the right way, but he believes this to be standard behaviour most people adopt in such situations. Mycroft stills again and leans a little more heavily against his torso and Sherlock guesses he must have got it right after all.

The silence in their foxhole is deep and only punctuated by their slow breathing. Thinking of his violin, that he left behind in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock starts humming softly. He doesn't really know where the melody comes from; it's not something he has ever played. He guesses it must be something he heard recently instead. As he searches his brain for the right recollection, he continues to hum lightly and parts of the lyrics finally drift back to the forefront of his mind. It's one of the songs that played in officer Wittwer's car, he remembers now. He only distractedly listened to it, but some of the verses made him think of Mycroft. He guesses that must be the reason why his brain unconsciously stored the song away.

It tells the story of a little boy, alone in a land of ice, freezing since the beginning of time. The child is a prodigy, as clear and as pure as ice and nothing can break him. He defies the adverse cold and the storms and no borders will ever stop him, as his feet carry him further ahead still.

In the darkness enveloping them, Sherlock starts to sing in a low voice. The verses drift around the shelter and hang between the two brothers who can both recognise each other in the words. Mycroft wishes he knew the song and he had the strength to sing along. Alas he doesn't, so he contents himself in listening intently. He commits the lyrics and melody to memory as he slowly drifts off to sleep.

"…Du bist so Rein so klar wie Eis das dich keine Hand zerbricht. Es gibt nichts das dich bezwingt, du bist ein Wunderkind. Ein Wunderkind." Sherlock finishes the song eventually and silence falls on them again.

o0o

John misses the hatch. He walks straight past it, without seeing it. He would have kept marching on, if the man accompanying him in the woods hadn't caught the glimmer of something metallic.

"Wait," Tom whispers urgently. "There's something."

John quickly turns on his feet and takes two steps back to come and stand next to the agent. He looks down and spots the protruding handle and the squared metallic hatch. He takes two steps back, aims his gun steadily at the entrance — finger hovering over the trigger — as he gives the spy a head shake to order him to pull the metallic door open.

At first, John only sees darkness. He takes a step closer and makes out two pairs of long legs and finally, as his eyes follow up the limbs, his gaze settles on the surprised face of his best friend.

"Sherlock!" He holstering his gun and lowering himself inside the hole.

"Oh my god, are you alright?" John questions, noticing from up close the numerous bruises and cuts on his friend's face. "Where are you-"

"Mycroft!" the detective interrupts him. "Mycroft's hurt, John."

There's a dark edge to Sherlock's voice that has the doctor quickly redirecting his gaze to the elder Holmes that, he only now notices, his friend is holding protectively against himself.

He removes gently, but with urgency, the blanket and gets his first good look at the second wounded man. Well, if he thought Sherlock looked bad, what he sees then has him reconsider his judgment. Pressing two fingers on the pale and cold skin of the government official, John finds the very weak pulse of an unconscious man. He tries to turn Mycroft a little to have a better look at his chest, but his flatmate still hasn't released the death-grip he has on his brother.

"I need to have a look," he tells him, but the detective doesn't release his hold on the wounded man.

"Sherlock!" John looks up and meets the bright blue-grey eyes squarely on. There are more emotions in the silver orbs than he has ever seen. "You need to let go, so I can help him."

It takes a few blinks of long, dark eyelashes, before comprehension dawns in the other man's eyes and he finally forces himself to let go.

"Sorry." Sherlock helps the doctor to lower his brother down on his back. "I didn't know what to do, John. I... he's hurt so much and there was nothing I could do."

The words tumble out of Sherlock's mouth and John spares a moment to pat him on the shoulder to quell his string of self-reproach.

"It's alright Sherlock," he assures him. "You did good; you found him."

Then he moves back to Mycroft's side and he opens his coat — Sherlock's, he notes with surprise — to reveal a blue and purple torso with several cuts. He unconsciously winces at the sight.

Sherlock doesn't need to be told that his brother's state is alarming.

"We have to go back to the station," John starts. "A helicopter will pick us up there. It's the only place it can land."

The detective nods, before standing up and helps the doctor get his brother out of the hole. They start walking, as fast as they can, both flatmates on each side of Mycroft to carry him through the trees. Tom quickly calls Anthea on his satellite phone to give her their location and request immediate air-support. He has no idea where the young woman on the other end of the line is going to find them an aircraft, but he has no doubt that a ride will be waiting for them when they arrive. _Strange woman, that one,_ he thinks, _but then, if she works for Mycroft Holmes, she's bound to be competent_.

o0o

A big helicopter in the middle of a forest, it turns out, attracts a lot of attention. It isn't long after the metallic bird appeared in the sky and landed next to the relay station that a black jeep arrived at full speed. Bullets start to fly and the detective can hear John firing behind them, buying them time to get in. Sherlock and Tom finish lifting an unconscious Mycroft inside before climbing in as well.

"John!" he calls out to his friend, once he's seated. Behind him, he can hear Tom give instructions to the pilot to take off immediately. "Hurry!"

His flatmate quickly steps on the skid and Sherlock holds out his hand to him as the chopper takes off. John is still firing, and one of the thugs — Peter, Sherlock notes happily — falls to the ground, a large splatter of red quickly blossoming on his chest.

Two bullets quickly ricochet on the metallic fuselage and John fires back another volley. The pilot expertly veers to the left, even as the helicopter gains more height, and they're soon out of the firearms' shooting range. The detective helps his friend inside the cabin and he closes the door.

"Tell him to take us to the closest hospital," the shorter man barks to Tom, his chin indicating the pilot.

"Already have," the spy assures him, shouting to be heard over the sounds of the rotors.

"Med-kit?" the doctor screams to the pilot. "_Medizin_?"

The man rapidly turns over, to point at Sherlock's feet. The detective immediately bends down to retrieve a small red bag from under his seat. He holds it out to his friend who kneels down, next to Mycroft on the deck's floor. He checks the eldest Holmes' pulse and finds it to be dangerously weak. There's no colour left in his face and his pupils, John finds, are not reacting anymore. He quickly feels along his chest and finds at least three broken ribs and he mentally adds 'potential internal bleeding' to the list of injuries.

"ETA?" he questions loudly and he can hear Tom passing the question forward to the pilot.

"Fifteen minutes," the spy replies a little later._ Too long,_ the doctor thinks, _way too long_.

**TBC**

* * *

_Cliffhanger? What cliffhanger?_

_Only one chapter left, and then the epilogue._

___Note:  
The song at the end is "Wunderkind" (Prodigy), by German pop-rock band Eisblume.__  
The other song, that was playing in Wittwer's car before that one, was actually "Zeit bleibt nicht stehen" (Time Doesn't Stand Still)._


	13. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12.

The wait is unbearable.

Sitting in a long pale blue corridor, the thick smell of antiseptic assaulting him, inactivity is slowly driving Sherlock up the wall. He hasn't moved since they arrived. He has been forced by a very unfriendly orderly to stay behind, not being allowed to go any further than the large double swinging-door.

It was that same double door that still stands tall in front of him now. The door that is insulting him silently, leering at him, taunting him; the only thing lying between his brother and himself. That door knows what he doesn't. It knows what is happening on the other side, it knows if Mycroft is still alive whilst Sherlock does not.

The wait is unbearable. The uncertainty is insufferable.

They made it to the hospital in a little over twelve minutes; unfortunately Mycroft's heart gave up after ten minutes and forty-eight seconds. It took John nearly a full minute to restart it, a minute during which Sherlock was unable to breathe at all. It was as if his own heart stopped working as well.

Then they finally landed, and a small group of doctors and nurses were waiting for them on the parking lot of a little hospital with a trolley and some equipment. They worked efficiently, while John gave them a quick resume of the patient's condition. Tom dutifully translated everything, word for word, before they entered the building. Sherlock followed numbly behind until he got to _the _door.

That was a little over two hours ago.

In the meantime, two nurses and one doctor tried to get him to his feet so he could receive some proper treatment for his own wounds. They have all being deterred by harsh words and a few deliberately hurtful deductions.

The only person that Sherlock allowed anywhere near him with medical equipment, is John. He knows his flatmate understands why he can't move. Why, even as John removed his suit jacket and his shirt to bandage his chest, he can't bring himself to tear his gaze away from _the_ door. He didn't shift when the shorter man disinfected the cuts on his face, or when he placed a small butterfly bandage on the open wound near his hairline.

That was roughly one hour ago.

A little while later, John brought him food and drinks. He swallowed half of the water bottle. It was enough to quench his thirst, but he remained careful not to drink too much. He didn't want to have to go to the gents anytime soon. He left the food untouched and that got a long suffering sigh out of the blonde man sitting next to him.

That happened pretty much thirty minutes ago.

The wait is unbearable; the uncertainty is insufferable and Sherlock thinks some doors should be blasted out of existence.

He fidgets, fights the urge to just stand up and enter the forbidden room to go find the answers he so desperately wants to have and sighs for the umpteenth time.

"It's alright Sherlock," John tells him then. "It's actually a good sign when it takes this long."

He's half-tempted to avert his gaze long enough to give his flatmate an _are-you-mad_ look, but he settles for a groan of frustration instead.

"It takes time to stop internal bleeding and they also need to fix his ribs; some other organs could also have been hurt," the doctor explains. "They wouldn't go through all this trouble if they thought he didn't have a chance."

The words are crude and John normally wouldn't speak like that of a patient, but he knows half-truths and a condescending tone won't work on the detective. It's better to stick to cold facts with him, even if it hurts.

"He's strong and he has a good constitution. I'm sure it's going to be alright," he offers, with a comforting pat on Sherlock's shoulder.

The door opens eventually and a tired-looking doctor comes out. The detective's eyes latch onto him at once as a tiger would onto its prey. He scans him quickly, engages all of his brain into the action; all the rest blurs and disappears from his sight.

The only thing he sees, the only thing he thinks about in this moment is the man that faces him and the clues he brings. They pour out of him by the dozen. Man, mid-forties, has two children, likes dogs, happily married, recently back from holidays, went somewhere sunny, tuna sandwich for lunch, cereals for breakfast, left-handed, practises a sport, quite possibly tennis, hands not completely dried, just got off of surgery, shirt not correctly fastened, _long_ operation then, creases of fatigue around his eyes but it's only early afternoon, long _and_ difficult one...

The clues keep pouring out of him, as he speaks, and the detective gets even more information from the man's retreating back, as he finally takes his leave and disappears after a corner. Only then does he realise that he hasn't listened to a single word the man has said.

Sherlock gets to his feet quickly, panic rising with alarming levels as he realises he knows everything about this doctor, except what he most wanted to know. Blood rushes to his head at the too-sudden movement and the world swirls around him. He has to flatten his left palm against the wall for support. John's hands are quickly on him, steadying him.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock questions, startled, turning quickly back to look at his friend with imploring eyes. "What about Mycroft? What did he say?"

"He's alright," John assures him. "The surgery went well and they're going to move him to a room soon. Then we can go and see him."

An intense wave of relief washes over him and he sinks back down on the plastic chair just as rapidly as he got up. John pats his shoulder again.

o0o

The room is simple, nothing ostentatious, but at least it's a private one. A few texts to Anthea solved all the problems concerning insurance and hospital bills.

There's a large bed close to the window and one chair on each side of it. There's also a TV and a small desk. Next to the entrance is a plain door leading to the toilets. All those details hold very little interest to Sherlock. What receives all the young man's attention is the person lying in the bed in front of him: _Mycroft_, still breathing, still alive.

He walks closer and stops at the foot of the bed to gaze at his brother earnestly. He looks better than he did when they brought him in. His flesh isn't so ghostly pale and there are faint traces of pink back in his cheeks.

The blankets, he notes, have only been raised up to his waist and he hasn't been given a shirt. But Sherlock doesn't worry about the cold, he doubts Mycroft can feel it under the numerous layers of bandage covering up all of his torso and his left shoulder. His brother seems to be resting comfortably though, his head turned a little on his right side as he sleeps on, breathing regularly to the soft beeping of the surrounding machines.

Sherlock sits down in the chair on the left side of the bed and he readies himself for another long wait. His brother, he knows, always loved to sleep in late.

o0o

They are brought some food by a nurse around supper-time and Sherlock doesn't make a move towards his plate.

"Eat something!" John orders, from the chair on the other side of the bed.

"Not hungry."

"How could you not be hungry?" His flatmate sits up. He takes two steps to his left and grabs the detective's tray from the trolley. "You haven't eaten anything in days."

"Eat this!" John drops the tray on his lap. It contains a piece of fish with carrots and beans on the side. "Or I'll have them sedate you and place you in a bed with an intravenous tube to feed you."

John doesn't seem to be joking and Sherlock forces himself to eat. It barely tastes better than ash in his mouth, but he finishes his plate, knowing he needs the nutriments if he wants to stay awake through the night.

Mycroft finally stirs back to consciousness a little while later. He moans feebly, before slowly blinking his eyes open. Sherlock is standing next to him within an instant and he smiles as tired blue eyes finally settle on his face.

"She-lck?" the wounded man croaks weakly, and the detective understands the full question without any need for it being said aloud.

"I'm fine," he assures his sibling. "We both are."

Mycroft swallows then, nodding minutely in relief. He's fighting the pull of sleep; it's evident, his eyes keep blinking slowly. He tries to speak again, his lips parting a little, but only a rasped breath makes it through his throat. He frowns in distress at his incapability to communicate.

Sherlock moves closer and sits on the side of the bed, as he searches his brother's eyes to try and understand what he wants to say. His proximity seems to help calm him some and he reaches for one of the bandaged hands on impulse. The corners of his brother's lips quickly lift up in the beginning of a smile, before his face relaxes and his eyes close as he falls asleep again. Sherlock doesn't let go of his hand.

o0o

The second time Mycroft wakes up, it's in the middle of the night and his brother is fast asleep, folded awkwardly in his chair, with his long legs propped up on the foot of the bed.

He smiles at the sight. He doesn't remember much of anything past running away with Sherlock in the forest. He guesses he's in some kind of a hospital, but that's as far as he can get with the deductions in his tired state.

"Mycroft?" Someone calls out his name in a low voice on his left and he slowly turns his head over. He discovers John Watson seated on a second plastic chair. The doctor smiles warmly to him, when their eyes meet, and he returns the smile politely.

"How are you feeling?" John remains careful to keep his voice low. "Anything hurts, dizziness, strain?"

"No, I feel fine," he replies, without lying. Whatever meds they have him on are terribly effective.

"Good." John smiles again, leaning forward a little. "You're in a hospital in Halberstadt, Germany," he points out eventually and Mycroft is thankful for the input. "You were brought in this afternoon and underwent long surgery, but you should make a full recovery in no time."

"Sherlock?"

"Is fine as well." John's smile doesn't falter and Mycroft take it to mean he's telling him the truth. "He's going to be sore for a few days and probably very grumpy, but that's the worst of it."

The joke has the eldest Holmes smiling. He looks back at his brother as he sleeps on, blissfully oblivious to their conversation, a sure sign that he is beyond exhausted.

"He was really worried about you," John continues, next to him, and Mycroft slowly turns his head back to fix the doctor with a raised eyebrow.

"I've never seen him like that," he elaborates. "He was so frustrated and anxious; scared even."

Mycroft swallows thickly at the words, motioning as he can for John to continue.

"Even after we got here and the doctor assured him you were going to be alright, he refused to leave. He stayed by your side until the exhaustion finally won over his resolve."

They talk a little bit more until Mycroft joins his brother back in sleep.

o0o

The third time Mycroft rouses up, sun filters through the window and he feels more like himself than he has previously. Sherlock is awake, reading a German newspaper, and John is nowhere to be seen.

"Anything interesting?" He almost succeeds in sounding completely normal.

"Burglary in a nearby jewellery store," the younger man replies, without looking up. His tone matches his brother's and it is as if they are back in London and none of this ever happened. "I'm almost certain it was an insurance scam."

"I'll have Anthea call the local authorities to inform them."

Sherlock folds the newspaper in two, before tossing it on the foot of the bed.

"You seem to be better." The detective finally looks up at him. "You weren't making much sense before," he adds with a frown. "Such interesting things you said on the Prime Minister though. I had no idea your job was so _entertaining_."

Mycroft is momentarily alarmed, before he fully analyses his tone and realises his brother is... joking. His heart throbs as it dawns on him that he is incapable of remembering the last time he has heard his brother tell _him_ a joke. He isn't sure if he should laugh at it or scold him for making fun of a wounded man. In the end, he settles for a slightly smug smirk.

"You don't look so good," Mycroft says, eventually.

"You should see yourself." Sherlock raises both eyebrows, as he crosses his arms over his chest, looking at his brother sternly.

"Well, at least I have a good excuse. What's yours?"

This sounds a lot like their usual type of conversation, only Mycroft hasn't forgotten what happened to them and the risks his sibling took for him. He knows he owes the younger man his life; it's not easy to say 'thank you' though.

"Sherlock-" he starts, and his brother looks up once more, but he cannot bring himself to flatly say it. Mycroft falls silent again, averting his gaze.

The younger man sits up then, his joints cracking loudly as he straightens his back, before taking two steps closer to the head of the bed. He sits back down on the side of the mattress, next to the laying man's torso.

Mycroft is still at a loss for what to say. He's unusually unsure of himself and a little bit afraid of saying the wrong thing. He reaches down for his sibling's hand and clasps his own fingers tightly over his brother's. He hopes this can be enough for him to understand what he's desperately trying to say. Sherlock lowers his eyes to look down at their joined hands with curiosity. Mycroft is afraid that he is going to remove his hand, but his brother does the exact opposite. He turns his palm up and grips the hand back.

Sherlock looks back up and regards his sibling with a soft smile that makes him seem younger than he is. He manages to surprise Mycroft once more, as he bends down to place a quick kiss on his brother's brow, for the second time in two days. The eldest's heart pangs in his chest and his throat constricts dangerously in return. Mere seconds later, a lone tear escapes his right eye and trails down his cheek slowly. Sherlock wordlessly brushes it off, with one lean finger.

Sherlock has things to say as well; lots of them, but his tongue is strangely numb and uncooperative. Like Mycroft, he has to resolve to actions to carry his thoughts across. He tightens his grasp on his brother's hand a little more and hopes this can convey the utter relief he feels.

"You should go to bed," Mycroft says eventually, but Sherlock, ever the stubborn one, nods 'no' in reply.

Not one to get deterred so easily, the eldest lifts his free hand to clasp it behind the detective's neck before tugging down gently. Sherlock's face registers surprise for a brief instant, before he seems to catch up with his sibling's intentions and he lets him pull his head down towards his bandaged chest.

He tries to lean on Mycroft's good side and hopes his weight won't hurt him. He quickly glances up at his brother's face and relaxes as it reveals no pain. He closes his eyes once his temple rests comfortably on the bandaged collarbone. He can hear his brother's heart beat steadily in his ear and it's a comforting and unfaltering reassurance that everything is alright now and that Mycroft is safe.

The position is awkward and slightly uncomfortable, and Sherlock moves his legs up on the side of the bed. His brother shifts a little to his left to accommodate him, but the movement tears at his stitches and he hisses in pain. Sherlock's eyes fly open at that, but the flash of hurt that crosses his sibling's features only lasts an instant and he soon closes his tired eyes. The detective relaxes again.

"Go to sleep, little brother," Mycroft murmurs, above his head, fatigue evident in his tone.

For once, Sherlock gladly obeys.

John finds them both asleep, in the same position, a little while later. He soundlessly takes one of the spare blankets and drapes it over his flatmate. Somehow, he isn't even surprised to realise Mycroft succeeded in getting Sherlock to finally lie down in a bed to rest, when everyone else failed.

Before sitting back down in his chair, the blogger quickly takes his phone out to snap a picture of the two sleeping brothers. This is one image he really wants to hold on to.

And who knows, maybe he can even use it one day, to blackmail Mycroft, if he needs to. It can never hurt to have some leverage against the British Government.

**TBC.**


	14. Epilogue

**TWO WORDS**

EPILOGUE.

Two weeks after they got back to London, Mycroft takes his first walk out of his flat. The fresh air and the sun on his face feel wonderful and it tastes like freedom.

He wears his usual attire, three piece suit and dark umbrella, and if it wasn't for the quickly fading cuts above his left eye, no one would suspect he almost died recently; well... almost no one. Those who know him well would be able to spot the fact that he leans more heavily on his umbrella than he usually does and that he has lost a lot of weight recently.

He takes a long walk and marches through the streets, without any real destination in mind, until suddenly he finds himself in front of 221B Baker Street.

He hasn't seen or heard from Sherlock and John since their plane landed and they parted ways. He meant to come and visit earlier, but the doctors were very specific about bed-rest. And alas, catching up on the tremendous pile of work that awaited him didn't even leave him time for a phone call.

Hesitating only an instant, he pushes the wooden door open and slowly walks up the stairs. Now that his mind is finally bereft of drugs and that he's completely rested, there is a long overdue conversation that needs to happen between him and his brother.

He knocks on the door and John Watson answers.

"Mycroft." The shorter man smiles brightly at him. "It's good to see you, how are you feeling?"

"Quite well, thank you," he replies, with a polite curve of his lips, as he enters. The doctor is clearly happy at the impromptu visit and being welcome somewhere is a novelty to the elder Holmes.

"I'm afraid Sherlock won't be back for a little while. He took a trip to the morgue." John closes the door. "Tea?"

"That would be lovely." Mycroft sits down in a chair and sets his umbrella carefully against it.

The doctor is back a few minutes later with a tray containing two cups of simmering tea and a plate of home-made biscuits — Mrs Hudson's probably, he guesses; John isn't the cooking type. They drink their tea quietly and the biscuits taste wonderful.

"I guess I should thank you." Mycroft breaks the silence eventually. He rests his cup back in its saucer. "For coming to Germany and then rescuing me and my brother."

"There's no need, really." John shrugs, tries to downplay it. Genuine modesty is a rare personality trait and Mycroft has a lot of respect for it.

"Pardon me if I disagree." His voice remains calm, but his eyes continue to fix the other man intensely. "Sherlock and I would both be dead, without you. This puts you in my dept."

John shrugs again, looks away, clearly uncomfortable. It's evident that he is wishing hard for a change of topic.

"Threats to my life are something I've come to accept," Mycroft continues. "But to Sherlock's..." he lets the end of the sentence hang; it doesn't need to be said.

He swallows thickly and finishes his phrase nonetheless. "Threats to my brother's life are something I will never be able to accept."

The doctor nods at that. He understands completely; he even shares the feeling.

It's a little odd this discussion between the two of them. John realises it is actually the first time he really _talks_ with Mycroft. They have met on several occasions, but they always exchanged platitudes at best or else their conversations were solely work-related. He notes, with a bit of regret, that he really doesn't know his flatmate's brother at all; he has no idea about his interests and what he appreciates in life. If one were to question him about what Mycroft likes, John wouldn't be able to get much further than _tea, biscuits and umbrellas_.

"Would you like to stay over for supper?" John asks. He feels like it is time he finally starts adding more things to that list. "If Sherlock hasn't messed with the food, while I was at work, I think we have some steaks left."

The look of surprise that crosses the other man's face would be comical, if the reason for it wasn't so sad. John realizes Sherlock's brother doesn't understand why he is invited to stay. Probably because he can't believe someone would ever want to willingly spend time with him without ulterior motives. If one were to question John about how many friends he thinks Mycroft has, his reply would be _none_.

"If you really want to thank me for saving your life, just say yes." John smiles at him and thinks it is high time to start adding more names to _that_ list.

"Gladly." Mycroft replies, with an honest smile and watery eyes.

They get back to sipping their tea, in silence, and the plate of biscuits quickly empties itself.

Mycroft eventually breaks the silence. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How's Sherlock doing?" He sounds hesitant. "After what happened in Germany."

"Why don't you ask him that?"

Mycroft falls silent again. He looks down at his empty cup, and sighs before offering, "I doubt I would get an honest answer."

"You two have some serious issues to solve." John states, matter-of-factly.

Mycroft remains silent, clearly uncomfortable at the shorter man's words. Actually, he's fighting an intense itch to just get up and leave, but he did after all, come here to talk to Sherlock and he knows his younger brother is going to arrive soon. He has not, however, planed for an open-heart _chat_ with his sibling's flatmate.

"Why don't you try to talk to Sherlock?" John asks, curious. "You obviously care a lot about him."

_Talking to Sherlock_... that is what he wants to do most, but every small attempt he made in the past has been strongly rebuked. He isn't sure if he knows how to do that anymore. He tried in Germany, and it seemed like, for once, his brother would have listened, but he hadn't managed to get the words out in the end.

"And he cares about you, just as much," John adds, when no answer is forthcoming.

The doctor's voice shakes Mycroft out of his thoughts again. These are not words he wants to hear, but he listens nonetheless. _Could Sherlock care, really?_ He feels a strange tumultuous sensation stirring, deep within himself.

A flitting something briefly passes on the ginger-haired man's face and John would have missed it, if he hadn't been looking at him so closely. He isn't sure, but he thinks he sees hope.

"Does he?" Mycroft's tone is controlled, John realizes; schooled in an emotionless monotone. His eyes, however, betray his evident interest in the upcoming answer.

Well, John is not going to disappoint and his voice is animated, as he recounts his flatmate's actions. "He jumped on the first plane available, when he found out what happened to you and then he was relentless. Nothing could have stopped him from finding you."

John looks at him intently for a reaction to his answer, but the elder Holmes is good at hiding his emotions.

"I was there Mycroft; I saw the anguish, the worry and the fear." He takes in a breath and looks him squarely on. "He cares: I assure you he does."

Years of practice allow the former spy to remain unmoving, face bereft of emotions. He is frozen in placid immobility, save for his bobbing Adam's apple when he swallows thickly at the other man's words.

John feels he's on the right track and he soldiers on. He forgets for a moment that the man facing him is the British Government and that he could make him disappear, from the face of the earth, with a flicker of his hand. "I'm sure there used to be a time when you two were close. What happened?"

_Don't want to think about that,_ Mycroft pleads within his head. _Please don't make me think about that._ He took a trip down memory lane very recently and he is still trying hard to get rid of the residual emotional pain it induced.

Looking back on his past, on what he's lost — the closeness with his brother, the love and adoration Sherlock had for him when they were kids — is something he is loathe to do. He hadn't had a choice in Germany; these memories — the more powerful that he harbours, hidden deep within his heart — were his only shield against the torture.

Sharp pain travels through him, at the thought. It's like a hundred needles piercing his skin everywhere. All his wounds have healed, but a phantom pain still lingers. It attacks him at the oddest of times. He doesn't want to give away his discomfort and it takes all of his will power not to clench his fists to help fight it off.

He remains motionless, and lets a long breath pass through his clenched teeth. John Watson is still waiting for his answer, he knows. He considers throwing him a clever lie to chow at, but at the last second his heart unexpectedly overcomes his mind and what comes out is the truth. "Time."

John realises that despite the man's evident reluctance to share his thoughts and feelings, a small part of him really wants to have this conversation.

Mycroft shrugs. "We grew up. He changed, I changed."

"I understand that," John assures him. "But it doesn't mean that your relationship can't change again."

A flicker of curiosity passes in the other man's eyes and John understands that, despite the projected lack of interest, he has all of his attention. _Damn stubborn Holmes's_, he thinks fondly, _they can never do anything the easy way._

John knows he doesn't understand the brothers' ongoing battle. He cannot begin to grasp at the reasons behind it, but he doesn't doubt for a second that they must be numerous — and for the most part — justified. However, he knows nothing is ever set in stone and he can't understand why, for all their intelligence, the two men are not able to grasp that one simple fact.

Well versed in the 'teaching a Holmes 101', John engages fully in the battle.

"Why don't you try to talk to him?" He intentionally goes for the obvious. It is a repetition of his earlier question and he is certain that this is going to unnerve Mycroft, but disdain or contempt is better than the uninterested coldness the man currently projects.

"I have." The answer is sour, said with something akin to anger.

John thinks it's just well hidden pain; still he pretends to let it get to him.

"When, ten years ago? Try again Mycroft." He uses his own version of contempt, words rushing out quickly as if flared by the man's disdainful rebuke.

Something briefly flashes again on the elder Holmes's face. Something fierce and hot, and John bids goodbye to the icy coldness that previously occupied the elegant features. He waits for a beat, gives the other man just enough time to collect himself, before he continues in a more subdued, yet no less intense voice, which allows for the words to be heard to their full extent, "Sherlock has changed, he _will_ listen."

The trick works and Mycroft's jaw tenses even as he averts his gaze — lashes blinking too quickly — looking somewhere to the left, to compose himself.

John refrains, with difficulty, from letting a smile break on his face at this small victory. Yes, the Holmes brothers may be extremely good at a lot of things, but there is one domain where John will always best them: _emotions_.

The impulse to run returns in Mycroft in full force, but he cannot move. It's all too hard for him. The phantom pain reaches new levels and although the flat is always kept at a really comfortable temperature, he feels the bite of the cold German winds attack his skin. He redirects all of his strength to control himself: hide the emotions, keep the game-face on, and battle the hope. _Most important this last one_, he tells himself, _whatever you do:_ _don't let yourself hope! _

All this leaves him weak in the knees and he's glad to be sitting. He forces his breath to calm and decides, from now on, that he will remain silent until Sherlock comes back. Except his mouth seems to have taken on a will of its own and he blurts out a question, cursing at himself inwardly even as the words come out.

"What if he doesn't?" With his gaze cast to the small desk on the left, Mycroft sounds hesitant. His voice takes an unsure tone John has never heard from the man before.

The doctor replays the words in his head and analyses the tone, and suddenly it hits him — _he's afraid_, his mind all but screams at him — and he wonders how in the hell he has not seen it before.

"Oh. That's it then, I get it." John lets out in a surprised huff. "I absolutely get it now."

He sounds callus and he feels bad for it, but then Sherlock — and apparently Mycroft too — always have this inane ability to make the worst come out of him.

Deep blue eyes lock onto him at once. They look sharp and cutting; filled with part hurt, part disbelief and a few other emotions and _oh, god the ice is long gone now_.

John decides to address the disbelief first. He's happy to prove to Mycroft that _yes_, it is possible for a mere mortal like him to have seen past his carefully erected defences and discovered the truth hidden behind it. He makes sure not to sound reproachful this time, as he states simply, "You're scared."

"I'm not!" Mycroft answers quickly — too quickly — averting his gaze again.

"Yes, you are. You're scarred shitless that he will repel you." John is determined to get his point across.

Mycroft could hate him, for his boldness, all he wanted later on; kidnap him and make him disappear, if he felt so inclined; but John is not going to back down. Not when he has an opportunity to put an end to this ever-raging fratricide war and help his friends. Yes _friends_, plural. He has become fond of Mycroft too, after the recent events.

"So what?" John doesn't want to give him any reprieve, or time to build up a defence. "You're not even going to chance it? You'd rather go on like that, with this masquerade of a relationship?"

The words are harsh and John knows it, but he will do what needs to be done to provoke a reaction. He needs to keep Mycroft talking, before he has time to hide underneath the ice again.

"It's better than no relationship at all!" In a rare fit of temper, Mycroft replies with the truth, and thus admits to the veracity of the other's theory. His mouth contorts bitterly, once the words are out, as he realizes the mistake he's just made.

John exhales loudly, as he leans back in his chair; the fight leaves him at once, now that he has won the battle. He feels no joy at the victory however. If anything, he feels sad for the man in front of him.

"Oh, Mycroft." He shakes his head sadly. "What the hell happened to the both of you?"

Predictably, no reply is forthcoming, but Mycroft is gracious enough to stop pretending that this discussion doesn't affect him. He lowers his gaze again, not so fast this time, and the doctor has more than enough time to see the pain in the unguarded blue eyes.

As he looks down, Mycroft can see that his right hand is shaking; small tremors that he cannot stop, even with all of his willpower. It hurts, everything hurts, outside and inside and he's close to breaking down completely. He feels like he's about to drown in feelings that he doesn't even want to acknowledge exist.

"I'm no Holmes, I know." John's voice is calm and it has a strange soothing effect on Mycroft's soul, so he listens carefully. "I don't have yours or Sherlock's intelligence, but please, if for once in your life, you should listen to someone else's advice: let it be this time."

Mycroft remains silent and immobile, but John has a fleeting thought that he is just going to stand up and walk away. He's proven wrong when the other unexpectedly turns his gaze back to him to fix him with a broken-hearted stare.

"Talk to him, Mycroft," John pleads; not minding the tone some might consider a sign of weakness. "_Really_ talk to him. Let him see that you're human and that you care. He will accept it."

The blue eyes get more watery, but the man's clamped jaw doesn't loosen. The doctor can read the tenseness in Mycroft. He understands how hard this must be for him. He represents the government and he's used to always being in control; he always calculates his actions, aims for the safest outcome. He is always two steps ahead of everyone else. What John is asking of him now is to place himself in emotional danger — the worst of them all — knowing, full well, that there is a great chance he may get hurt beyond repair if he were to fail.

"He will accept _you_." John pours all of his certainty in his voice; hopes that it will be enough.

Mycroft's reply dies on his lips, as the lower floor's door closes loudly. Energetic steps on the stairs quickly resound in the calm flat, announcing the arrival of his younger sibling. John stands up at that, crossing the two feet that separate him from Mycroft and briefly leaves a comforting hand on his left shoulder. He continues towards the entrance door, just as it opens.

Sherlock notes, at once, the presence of his brother in the flat. He lifts up an eyebrow, questions his flatmate silently, while he takes his coat off. John pretends not to see it and offers no answer. He asks about the shopping instead, because it's the first thing he can think of.

"You didn't happen to have the time to stop for some milk on the way, did you?" He moves to stand fully in front of Sherlock, to stop him from further entering the flat.

"Molly gave me the finger." The young man shakes a transparent bag, containing something bloody, in front of the doctor. "It was frozen; now it's soggy. I can't imagine what it would be like if I had stopped for _milk_."

John lets disgust cross his features, but he stays unmoving to buy Mycroft some time to collect himself, before he faces his brother. He knows there is little hope that the elder Holmes will follow his advice, but if by some miracle he does, then it won't do for him to start at a disadvantage.

"No body parts on the first three shelves of the fridge." John scolds. "And if you put this in the freezer, then label the Tupperware clearly."

Sherlock dutifully nods his head, and John moves out of his space to grab his jacket. "I'll go and get some milk."

The detective quirks an eyebrow at that.

"Don't forget about supper, Mycroft." John calls, over his shoulder. _Good luck,_ he adds, in his head, before closing the door behind him.

"What was that about?" Sherlock comes in his brother's peripheral line of sight.

Mycroft remains unresponsive; his expression as closed off as Sherlock as ever seen it. Yet there undoubtedly was anxiousness in John's tone.

_Something's going on,_ the detective deduces, and he realises his finger will have to wait. "Fridge or freezer?" he asks, as he enters the kitchen to dispose of the bloody digit.

His brother's even voice follows him in the room. "Freezer."

_Long discussion then,_ Sherlock understands, although he isn't sure what the subject will be. Has Mycroft already gone back to work? Is he here to coerce him into taking one of his cases again?

Sherlock places the digit in a Tupperware — that he labels 'Not food' — before going back to the living room. He sits down in the seat that his friend has just vacated and looks expectantly at his brother.

Mycroft looks at him down his nose. "I think we need to talk."

"Do we?" Sherlock searches his face, to find which topic it might be about. The eldest's features are oddly blank, even his eyes do not let a single clue through.

Mycroft looks away. "Yes, we do."

Sherlock waits, impatience slowly creeping in. He thinks of his finger and the murder case it might help solve.

"I believe I owe you a thank you," Mycroft starts eventually, and Sherlock instantly forgets about the severed digit in the freezer. "For coming to Germany and saving me."

He returns his gaze to his brother then, but it's the younger's turn to look away.

Sherlock swallows thickly, as he is reminded of what happened to them, on the continent.

"I'm so very sorry you got hurt in the process." Mycroft's mouth is as dry as it was back then.

"It's nothing, I'm fine now."

"Still… Thank you very much, brother-mine."

_Brother-mine_. Sherlock hasn't heard the old nickname in years and the surprise hits him like a rock. The strangest of things happens then, his heart misses a beat. He wouldn't have thought it humanly possible, not unless one suffers from a very serious heart condition, but apparently it is. He makes a mental note to question John later about it; he's a doctor, he should know.

Sherlock turns his head to look at him. "No one's allowed to mess with my brother."

"No one but me," he adds, with a smirk.

"Quite right." Mycroft smiles back; this is definitely a two way street, he thinks.

They remain quiet for a little while; the silence neither pressuring nor oppressive. A part of Sherlock's mind drifts back to the finger in the fridge and Mycroft smoothes non-existent creases in his trousers. He debates whether he should take the good doctor's advice.

"John has invited me to stay for supper." Mycroft thinks this is a good way to _tread the waters_.

"Has he?"

"Hmm, hmm." He allows for half a smile. "That is, if you haven't done anything unsanitary to the steaks while he was gone?" He's offering Sherlock a way out, he knows.

"I haven't touched the steaks."

Mycroft's smile grows. What he hears is '_You're welcome to stay over, for dinner'_.

More silence.

Mycroft leans forward and rests both elbows on his thighs, as he clasps his slightly trembling hands together. John's words of encouragements echo in his ears and he forces himself to voice out loud what he's being dying to ask for, for years, without ever having the strength to.

"I would like a second chance, Sherlock." His voice is small and he resolutely continues to look at his hands. "I know, I haven't always been there for you and I wasn't the brother you needed me to be, but—" he forces himself to look up and face his brother honestly, without any mask this time "—please, if you can give me a second chance, I can do better."

Sherlock's face registers surprise at the words.

Mycroft feels this is better than the disapproval that he was expecting. He waits, anxiously, for an answer. He holds his breath, for fear of disturbing the precarious silence by exhaling.

No answer comes, other than Sherlock abruptly sitting up. He takes a few steps away, and goes to look out of the nearby window, effectively turning his back on his brother.

Well… the answer isn't hard to translate and the trembles in Mycroft's hand turn into tremors. He wishes he could find the necessary strength to stand up and haul his broken carcass out of the flat, but alas he feels bereft of all energy. His heart is breaking apart, he can feel it, and it's more painful than any kind of torture.

Sherlock absentmindedly looks at the street outside, but the commuters driving back home don't register. Someone could be murdered, right then, in the middle of the street, and he wouldn't even notice. He is too caught up in the memories that play out on the glass window.

So many times, he let his brother down. So many times, he promised himself he wouldn't do that again. And every time, _every_ _time,_ he found a way to screw up again. If there is an inadequate brother in the room, it certainly isn't Mycroft.

"I'm sorry for not answering," Sherlock says, barely more than a whisper. It doesn't make up for his mistake, but that doesn't mean he shouldn't be apologising for it. John taught him as much. "When you called me, from Germany."

There's no response; not that he is expecting one. He's unforgivable, he knows, and a lone tear escapes one of his eyes without him noticing.

Mycroft sees it. From where he seats, its glistering reflection on the window is impossible to miss. He feels his strengths return to him and he stands up.

"Sherlock?" He takes two steps closer, thinks maybe, _just maybe,_ he misunderstood his brother's reaction and everything isn't lost.

"You were always a good brother to me, Mye. And _I_ should be the one asking _you_ for another chance." Sherlock turns back to him, eyes resolutely downcast. "And I don't know which number this would be, but it certainly wouldn't be the second."

_Oh,_ Mycroft thinks, surprised, _John was right._ He feels stupid suddenly, something that doesn't often happen to him and he doesn't know what to answer. So he does the only thing he can think of, he opens his arms wide and Sherlock takes the last step that separates them.

"I'm so sorry, Mye." Sherlock's voice is a mere murmur, muffled against his brother's soft coat.

"Don't be, brother-mine." Mycroft closes his arms protectively around him. "It's alright. I think we both made a lot of mistakes."

Mycroft then turns his head to the side and places a soft kiss on his brother's temple. He thinks it is about time he returns the gesture.

There's still one thing that needs to be said though and this time the words come easily to him. "I love you," he whispers then, in all simplicity. "I always will."

This, Mycroft finds, is the absolute truth. He has never stopped and never will. Nothing can change that.

"For always," Sherlock whispers the promise back, in the quiet silence of the flat. Two words. Two simple words that mean everything to them.

The rest, it hangs in the air. It's okay, it doesn't need to be said, they already know.

**THE END.**

* * *

_Hey everyone,_

_This story has come to an end and I hope you all enjoyed the ride. I would like to thank my two wonderful beta Emma and Susanne who helped polish this story, and everyone who left a review._

_I'm afraid this is the last you will read from me for awhile. I started to write original material, this year, and set on creating a series of detective novels. The manuscript of the first book is on its merry way to find an agent, and I'm currently fleshing out the outline of the second. _

_So… keep your fingers crossed for me; say a little prayer; toss a coin in a fountain or whatever other trick you know. By the way, if anyone knows someone high in the publishing industry food-chain, let me know._

_Rest assured that I haven't turned my back to fanfictions or anything. I promise to write some more eventually, so make sure to keep me in your 'Author Alert' list, if you like my work. _

_In the mean time, if you want to keep up with me and my work, feel free to follow me on Twitter ( Cristelle). _

_Until then...  
__Much love,_

_-K._

_P.S: If you're interested in a cleaner, nicer and easier on the eyes version of this fic for safe-keeping, it is available to download as a single .pdf file (link on my profile)._


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